


Age of the Geek

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, James is a little shit, Mild Angst, Pre-Relationship, Q is so done with him, Q's past is kinda generic but hey, de-aged James, i didn't mean for it to go this far, science that only looks like magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: The one where Q develops an anti-aging serum, James is the unintentional guinea pig, and everyone gets really, really bad headaches from all this chaos.





	1. Well, fuck.

“So when are we going on that date you promised me?”

Q lifts just his eyes to look up at the blond menace leaning on the other side of the table, grinning widely. “I never promised any such thing,” he replies dryly. “Now go away, before I call in Miss Moneypenny to drag you away by the ear.”

“Awww, Q, don’t act like that!” the eighteen-year-old whines, hooking another stool with his foot and dragging it over to sit across from Q, leaning his elbows on the table. “You said you would, five months ago!”

“You were ten years old at the time and not thinking clearly. Now leave, I need quiet.”

The other falls silent, pouting slightly (not an attractive look on him), and watches Q’s clever fingers take apart, clean, and put together again an exploding watch. He wonders what other things those fingers can do.

His dirty thoughts are interrupted by Q saying dryly, “Penny for your thoughts?”

He grins again. “Come now, Q, you know exactly what I was thinking.”

“That you’re bored and want to shoot a gun?”

“That you’re never boring and I could watch you for hours.” Which is true, although it was not the primary thought. He smiles into Q’s eyes, and is filled with glee when Q blinks, surprised, and then blushes in confusion.

“Go away,” Q mutters. “I’ll call you when the rifle is finished.”

The blond boy bounces to his feet, leans over the table, and presses a kiss to Q’s forehead, ignoring the shout of outrage and running for the door.

“Remember, you owe me a date!” he calls over his shoulder laughingly, then vanishes down the hall.

Q rubs his forehead on his sleeve, muttering about the ethics of shock-collars.

~~~\0/~~~

Before that, though, this happened:

Six months ago, Q stepped back from the capsule and grinned. “Excellent,” he murmured. “Almost finished. Now, let’s see… ah, there it is.” He picked up a water cooler bottle full of vaguely blueish liquid and set it carefully on the cluttered table beside the capsule. There was a piece of masking tape on it, with ACIDIC COMPOUND written on it in bold marks of a jumbo-sized sharpie. That was a lie, of course; the liquid was actually something Q was calling “rejuvenating rain” for the moment, since he’d only ever tried it on his hair. A few droplets from a pipette and the thinning patches had grown back so thickly he’d laughed. He would have laughed if it hadn’t worked, either, for the sheer silly vanity of his actions.

But now he carefully poured the entire cooler of liquid into the waiting reservoir in the capsule, and screwed on the cap tightly. There. Now he just needed a subject…

_Not_ himself. He had enough trouble being called “baby-faced” already. It wouldn’t be helpful at all if he was seventeen again; still a genius, still with every memory intact, but weedy and short and pimply. No, he’d have to ask someone very, very old—someone like Major Boothroyd. Q knew for a fact that the major was terrified of death (as was Q, no doubt about it); although this wouldn’t make anyone _live_ longer. It would simply make you _look_ younger. _Feel_ younger. It would make you believe yourself immortal.

Until you dropped dead of heart failure. But at least it would be relatively quick.

Q dusted his hands off and went to get his cellphone.

~

James Bond was in town, though, and that complicated matters.

First, Q still had a horrible, hopeless crush on him, which was very distracting. Second, Bond was a curious beastie, and had started poking around Q-branch whenever he could. This was equal parts annoying, frightening, and endearing. Third, he walked in on Q being cussed out by Major Boothroyd over the phone, and smirked when he saw the dismayed, miserable look on Q’s face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Q was repeating for the eighth time. “I’ll—I’ll put the project on hold.”

_“No, what you’ll do is dispose of it!”_ Boothroyd snarled, and Q flinched. _“It’s unnatural! Get rid of it!”_

“Yes, sir,” Q acquiesced miserably.

_“And I better not hear of anyone else catching wind, because if they do, I’ll come down there and skin you myself, do you understand?!”_

“Yes, sir.”

_“Good. Good night.”_

And Boothroyd rang off, without waiting for Q’s reply.

“What’s unnatural?” Bond asked, making Q jump and whirl, clutching the phone to his chest and feeling rather like a deer in headlights.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he snapped, though his voice wobbled considerably. “Out. Now. This is a _private_ workroom.”

But Bond had already laid eyes on the capsule, and was drifting towards it. “Is this it?” he inquired, running his fingertips along the smooth metal casing. “What does it do?”

“Nothing yet,” Q snapped, and grabbed his arm to drag him away—but trying to drag Bond anywhere was impossible when he didn’t want to go. “Get _out_ , I need to work on disassembling this.”

“Alright, alright,” Bond soothed, stepping away from the capsule and raising his hands, “I won’t pry.” His eyes glinted. “Much.”

Q sighed deeply. “You’re going to be a complete nuisance, aren’t you,” he predicted gloomily.

“Maybe.”

Q suddenly had an idea. But it was a horrible idea, and cruel, so he shoved it away just as he was shoving Bond to the door. “Make yourself useful. Go test our latest car. It’s an Aston, before you ask.”

Bond’s face actually lit up, and he allowed Q to escort him to the door, although he went slowly, and smirked again when Q flapped a hand in a shooing motion. “I _will_ find out what you’ve been up to.”

“I’m sure you will,” Q replied acidly, and shut the door. He didn’t realize how much of a challenge that sounded until later, when he’d finished designing the next mini-radio and was sitting alone in the dark, brooding at his machine.

~

James was unabashedly sneaking.

Q probably hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but James was certainly treating it as one. He’d already hacked his way as far as Q’s “public” desktop; but, of course, that showed nothing. He couldn’t get into his “private” files because, well, they were Q’s and private. No one could get into them.

So James went with the next best thing, his favored method: good old fashioned legwork.

First, he followed Q’s schedule closely, aware at all times that if he were caught, everyone would think the worst of him. Stalking a mark was one thing; stalking a colleague was another.

Strangely enough, given how hectic James expected Q’s life to be, he kept to a tight schedule, and it ran like clockwork. Always in his office from 6AM to noon; always in his “public” workshop from 12:20 to 15:00; always circulating the labs, garages, and workshops from 15:00 to 18:00; always in his workroom from 18:00 to 00:30. Always, always, always. That gave James five and a half hours where Q was not anywhere in the building.

Second, James mapped a route that would avoid the cleaning crew and the skeleton staff that worked at night. That was easy; he knew _their_ schedules by heart already. Still, it never hurt to check.

Third, he made sure that he finished his mission early, with minimal casualties and no demolished buildings, so as to be home in time to put his plan into action.

His plan was quite simple, really; saunter into Q-branch, break into Q’s workroom, discover what that thing was, then send Q an encrypted message about it. What was the worst that could happen?

~

The worst thing happened, and it was _not_ what he expected.

Sneaking past everyone hadn’t been hard, and neither had breaking in to the workroom. There were multiple cameras, and James gave a cheeky little wave before carefully closing the door. He didn’t bother locking it; he’d had enough nasty moments being locked in a room with no other exits. So he sauntered over to the machine that looked disturbingly like an upright coffin and began to inspect it carefully.

Surprise, surprise, there was no way to open it. He still looked it over carefully before walking towards an interesting-looking remote and examining that, as well. There was a helpfully-illustrated button; James smiled and pressed it, and the coffin opened.

Just as James approached it carefully, a siren began to blare, and lights started flashing. He spun, his feet tangled in a cord, and he fell into the coffin.

The door slammed shut immediately, heavy locks latching into place. There was no room to fight, barely any room to breathe—

He heard the burbling of water.

~

Q was running through his branch, panting and trying to get there before security did. They would smash his precious door, and it would take him _weeks_ to modify another one. He spotted them just as they were drawing their guns, aiming at the locks—

“DON’T SHOOT!” Q hollered, and the guards all jumped about a foot, spinning to see the weedy little Quartermaster stumbling up to them. He stopped, clutching the stitch in his side, and informed them as levelly as he could, “It’s just 007. I saw him on my secure circuit at home. Let me through.”

They did, all four looking baffled; well, Q was, too. He was also very concerned, because if Bond had figured out what the rejuvenator was…

He went to unlock the door, but it was already so. He frowned, but did not hesitate in opening the door and walking in.

“007?” he called warily, when he didn’t immediately see the tall, broad shape that was Bond. “007, where…?” He trailed off, seeing that the rejuvenator was open, and there was a pile of fabric in front of it.

Furtive movements under a table. Q limped to the table, and, slowly, clutching his aching side, knelt to peer underneath.

A little boy, perhaps about ten, stared at him. He was blond, his ears were large, his eyes a piercing blue. He seemed to be clad only in an adult’s button-up shirt. And he looked in utter shock.

“Q?” he whispered, with a tremor in his thin, too-high voice.

 “Yes, 007?” Q answered calmly.

The boy suddenly scrambled forward and threw his arms around Q’s neck, clinging as if for dear life. Q automatically wrapped his arms around the shaking child, and wondered, a bit panicky, what the fuck he was supposed to do now.

~~~\0/~~~

“He doesn’t like me,” he grouses, staring moodily at his melting ice cream.

Eve eats her own bowl with quick, delicate movements. “He likes you well enough,” she assures, glancing at Little James slyly. “He just doesn’t feel like having a relationship with you.”

“But I’m young again, now!” Little James protests, gesturing at himself. Indeed, he isn’t as broad as he was, but he’s fit, and nearing the peak of life. “I’m young enough for him!”

“You do remember he’s thirty-five, right?”

Little James scowls at Eve’s grin. “He looks ten years younger,” he mutters, and his face goes all soft and thoughtful and wistful, like it always does when he thinks about Q. Eighteen year old James is apparently far more romantic than forty-three year old 007.

Eve represses a snicker. Everyone else finds this version of James slightly alarming; Eve finds him sickeningly adorable. Especially when he starts talking about how much he “likes” Q.

“He promised me a date,” Little James murmurs, his expression darkening.

“You were high on painkillers, love,” Eve points out. “And, let me remind you, he said it because you were crying and wouldn’t let go of him.”

Little James looks away, but not before Eve spies the faint blush in his cheeks. Maybe that was a bit far to remind him of that, but it still needed to be said.

“I… I don’t remember that part very well,” he admits softly. “I remember him saying it, but…”

Eve’s mobile buzzes. She takes it out and groans at the name that flashes across the screen. “Alright, love, it’s back to work for us. Finish your ice cream and we’re off.”

~~~\0/~~~

M stared.

Q stared back.

The little boy named Bond contemplated his thumbs like he wanted desperately to suck on one.

Q was currently seated in one of the chairs across from M’s desk, and Bond was sitting in the other. The boy was still swamped in his old shirt and nothing else; Q’s rejuvenating rain didn’t affect clothing. Q himself was slightly irked that M was focusing almost all of his attention on the inventor, and not the invader.

“You made a time reversal machine,” M stated flatly.

“I made a restorative liquid that has the effect of reversing aging,” Q corrected, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “I… I didn’t know it would be so strong.”

M finally looked at Bond, who looked back with a tired steadiness that no normal child had. “Well?” M demanded gruffly. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Bond actually glared, before turning to Q and saying stiffly, “I apologise for breaking into your workroom.”

Q sighed, knowing he’d never get more than that. “Apology accepted. Now can I _please_ be allowed to figure out a way to fix this, before people find out?” He aimed this last at M, who thinned his lips but nodded.

“Go. I’ll deal with… this.”

Q nodded and stood, and, with one last glance to Bond (who was now watching Q like a particularly suspicious hawk), he left.

Of course Eve was curious. Q said it was classified; she didn’t ask for more information, although the glint in her eye said that she _would_ find out. He didn’t mind. As long as she didn’t tell anyone, it was fine.

Q was cornered by the security guards, who demanded to know why there was a kid answering to “007” hanging around, why Bond’s clothes were on the floor of Q’s unlocked private workroom, and why the security footage had been wiped. Q had no good answers, so, again, he said that M had decided that was classified, and they’d have to ask M if they wanted to know anything. Since he knew for a fact that most of the security staff were terrified of M, he knew the chance of their asking was minimal.

When he returned to his workroom, he locked the door behind him and stared morosely at his machine. Well. Time to take it apart—for safety reasons. He needed it to turn Bond back into the forty-three year old menace he used to be, the one that Q—fancied. He didn’t love him, but he fancied and admired him greatly. But that was neither here nor there. With a quiet groan, Q pushed away from the door he’d been leaning against and stepped forward to begin disassembling the capsule.

It had used every drop of rejuvenating rain. That was probably why Bond had… regressed so much. A glitch in the system? A mechanical failure? Whatever it was, Q had to find it, quickly, so he could finish tearing apart his precious machine.

And he did find it, and he did cry a little, because it was his favorite, most ingenious safeguard; which meant he had to invent something better. And maybe no one else ever thought about it, but inventing was _hard_. It wasn’t magically finding a way to create an image in your head; it was cursing at the idea for not being good enough, cursing at the plans and simulations for not working, cursing at the materials and tools for not doing what you want them to do, and all the time cursing at yourself for your own stupidity in thinking this was a good idea. Maybe the finished product was worth it; most of the time, it wasn’t. Inventing was a lot like art in that respect. Inventing _is_ an art.

Now Q had to go delve into his own imagination, try not to get sidetracked, and find a way to make his safeguards better.

He didn’t complain. At least, not to anyone else. Instead, he finished what he was doing, wrote down the things he had to do today, and got to work on the first task, which was figuring out how much rain was too much. Technically, he should’ve been working on a way to reverse this; but it’d been a god damn year, like hell was he giving up now.

He was muttering to himself and getting very excited when someone knocked on his door. He scowled, but put down his pen carefully and stomped to the door.

“Yes?” he demanded as he yanked open the door—and saw no one. He looked around in confusion, before a polite cough drew his eyes downwards. “Oh. So M finished quizzing you?”

Bond—Little Bond, as Q automatically named him in his head—frowned at Q. “It wasn’t a quiz,” he replied, a little waspishly. “It was a bloody interrogation. May I come in?”

“Of course,” Q sighed, and stepped to the side to allow Bond entry.

Bond swaggered in; and wasn’t that a funny sight, a ten year old child swaggering like an adult with something to prove. At least he’d somehow found clothes that fit him. Children’s jeans and a searing blue t-shirt that was perhaps a few sizes too big covered him instead of an adult’s shirt, and he looked somehow innocent with his big blue eyes and open face.

“Why are you taking it apart?” he asked, in his high child’s voice.

“Safety measure,” Q answered shortly, walking back to his table and sitting again. If he kept his back to Bond, or at least his eyes off him, he could pretend it really was Bond in all his grown up glory. Until he spoke, that is.

Bond drew a second stool around the table and hopped up on it, leaning his elbow on the tabletop and watching Q write feverishly. “What are you writing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what went wrong, if it was just too powerful, if there was too much of it, if it was just your personal body chemistry… your body chemistry!” Q whirled on Bond, who jumped. “That’s right! I have to take you up to medical so they can do tests! The results will all be confidential, of course, and I’ll stay to make sure they don’t try anything unnecessary, but it’s very important that we find out if it affected you negatively in any way. Maybe that will be the key to reversing it.”

“You’re scary when you’re excited,” Bond commented uneasily, then yelped when Q grabbed him and picked him up, settling the boy on the genius’s hip, and marched out of the workroom. “I can walk on my own! I’m not a child!”

“Your strides are much shorter than mine,” Q answered, almost absently, tramping through the halls. “If we’re to get this done quickly, it will be much easier if I carry you. Even if you do weigh the same amount… weight, that’s another factor to think about.”

He continued to mutter under his breath as he walked, avoiding other people. Bond stopped squirming and just listened to Q’s quiet, excited babbling. In fact, if Q had been paying attention, he would’ve been made uncomfortable by Bond’s intense stare. As it was, he was still muttering when he reached Medical, and when the head nurse approached him, looking curious, Q stated bluntly, “I need a standard physical done on him, also a DNA comparison and an age sampling. And also…” he rattled off a long list of tests, and the head nurse’s eyebrows rose, and rose, and rose, until the nearly reached her hairline.

“Are you going to explain any of this?” she demanded, when Q was finished.

“It’s classified,” Q answered firmly.

Bond, having finally looked away to the head nurse when she’d spoken, turned back to Q. God, it was so _weird_ , his face so innocent and… and _trusting_. Q put him down; his arms and back were beginning to hurt anyway.

“Well then, lad,” said the head nurse to Bond, and blinked as Bond straightened, looking rather offended.

“I’m not a ‘lad’, Cynthia,” Bond responded indignantly. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for three years!”

“Three… 007?!”

“Yes,” Bond confirmed.

The head nurse, Cynthia, continued to gawk for a moment—then she, too, straightened up and replied, “Well! You’re obviously a lad now, and while I doubt you’re going to be any easier to handle, please remember that I’m bigger than you. Will you be overseeing the tests?” This last to Q, with a bit of a biting edge. Medical did not appreciate it when Q-branch tried to “help”. Just as Q-branch did not appreciate the bimonthly swooping in of nurses and doctors to “check that everyone was healthy”. It was impossible to know which side started it, but it was there, simmering, and Q didn’t want to be the one to start an all-out blood feud.

“No,” he answered her question gracefully, “I trust your judgement. Although I would appreciate a copy of your notes, please, when you’re done.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Even the ones you can’t understand?”

“That’s what I have Google for. I’ll come to you if I have questions, but I’ll try not to let them be stupid ones.”

Cynthia continued to eye him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Fair is fair. You owe me, though, Q.”

“I know. Thank you, Cynthia.” Q turned to Bond, addressing him from his superior height; “And _please_ don’t cause trouble. This is important for fixing things. The more you cooperate, the sooner I can figure out a reversal.”

“I’m not an idiot, Q,” Bond replied dryly. “I’ll be good.”

“Thank you. I’ll come back when Cynthia calls.”

“Not a moment sooner?” Cynthia inquired sharply.

“You have my word,” Q promised solemnly.

“Good. Get on with ye then.”

~

James hated Medical. Hated, hated, _hated_ them. But Q said this was necessary, and he trusted Q’s judgement. He had to.

He didn’t like being small again. He did not have good memories of childhood. Even kind old Kincaid had loomed, and James had never liked looming. That was one of reasons he didn’t do very much of it himself. And besides the looming and making him feel small and helpless, there was the frustration of not being able to _do_ anything. He was too short, too weak, too young. Too cute, too baby-faced, too underestimated.

He did not fight Cynthia, although he fidgeted throughout the physical. He didn’t fidget when she was drawing blood, though. She didn’t draw very much, and she gave him a biscuit and a cup of juice afterwards.

“You’d be surprised how many agents insist on being coddled,” Cynthia answered his reproachful glare dryly.

James ate the biscuit and drank the juice and tried not to feel too humiliated.

Then he had to _wait_ , while Cynthia parceled off which bits of information went where and who was cleared to see what and all manner of administrative stuff that James usually paid no mind to. But now… now, he was reluctant for anyone to know, and he listened uneasily as Cynthia muttered about who to tell and who to evade.

“You know,” James commented casually, “I’m really more Q’s problem than yours. You don’t have to worry about that kind of thing.” He smiled brilliantly as Cynthia’s head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes at him. He didn’t really expect her to listen to him, but—

Suddenly, she grinned. “You’re right. You’re not my problem. You’re Q’s.” Then she grabbed a phone and dialed Q’s extension.

~

Q was working on a project for Bond, to make up for turning him small, when his phone rang. He snatched it up and settled his between his ear and his shoulder, snapping out an annoyed, “Q.”

“Hello, Q,” Cynthia answered in honeyed tones. “I’ve sent everything off for testing, and little James here is cleared to be returned to you.”

Q fought a smirk. “Have you given him a lollipop? He gets dreadfully fussy when he doesn’t get a sweet after a doctor’s visit,” he teased in kind, knowing very well that Cynthia had put him on speakerphone, and Bond could most definitely—

“I can hear you, boffin,” Bond called, annoyed.

“On second thought, no lollipops, please,” Q went on smoothly, ignoring Bond. “I’ll take fussy over high on sugar any day. Alright, give me a moment, I’ll be right over.”


	2. Oh, god damn it.

“I have an idea to explain this.”

Q gave Bond an uneasy side-eye. “Why am I dreading whatever your idea is?” he asked.

Bond pinched Q’s arm. Q did not react. Bond scowled, an absolutely adorable expression on him. “Because you don’t trust me. Look, first we have to explain why there’s a kid hanging around MI6. Let’s say I’m my own son.” Bond’s eyes were shining with mischief, the scowl forgotten. “I’m young enough for it to be plausible, old enough that it makes sense that it took my mother this long to find James Bond. I’ll come up with something—perhaps my mother’s family threw her out, or maybe she’s also a spy—and all we have to say to explain my wandering around is to say I was sent on a deep-cover mission and left my “son” in your care.”

“Why _my_ care?”

“Because this is your fault.”

“Hang on, it’s your fault you broke into my workroom and started sneaking around!” Q protested, stung, forgetting entirely that he’d been feeling bad.

Bond waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll think of a better reason later. For now, let’s just say you couldn’t say no to my charming self.” Bond beamed up at Q. Q flicked his forehead, making him flinch.

“I won’t be saying anything. I’ll—R. Good morning,” Q greeted his second smoothly, noting her stare at Bond. “Are those the reports from last night?”

“Yes, sir.” A smile unfurled on her face, and Q glanced down to see that Bond was doing his best impression of a shy child, even staying just a little bit behind Q’s leg. Q rolled his eyes. R continued, “Who’s this?”

“His name is James,” Q answered heavily. “007 left him with me, god knows why, before he left for Libya.”

“Dad said it was to pay you back,” Bond offered timidly. Oh, the sly bugger. R was melting already.

“’Pay him back’?” R snorted. “It was his fault the car shorted, wasn’t it, sir?”

“Absolutely his fault,” Q agreed sourly (though he knew for a fact that the car incident was because Eliot from engineering had cut corners; Q had chewed him out properly for it).

“Have you had breakfast yet, James?” R asked kindly. “I know Q doesn’t eat, but that’s no reason for you to starve too.”

“Hey!” Q objected, as Bond giggled.

“No, mummy only dropped me off at midnight, and then dad brought me here.”

“Not even a day with his own son,” R muttered, then sighed. “Although, if he had a mission that quickly… come with me, James, I’ll show you to the breakroom. There should be something left to eat there.”

Bond looked up at Q, pretending to be uncertain; Q nodded and waved him on. Bond took three steps… then whirled and grabbed Q’s hand, tugging him along as R led the way, struggling not to laugh. Q glared at Bond, who only smirked.

R kept up a stream of friendly chatter, and Bond pretended to slowly warm to her. He still clutched Q’s hand tightly, but he walked a little further away, a little closer to R. Q let him, keeping his own fingers loose around Bond’s hand, should he decide to stop being so embarrassing. People were staring. Q carefully did not look at any of them.

They were in luck; someone had brought doughnuts, and there was some grape juice in the fridge. Bond looked longingly at the coffee machine, but R frowned and he didn’t bother asking.

“Who’s this?” Mark asked, stopping in the doorway to stare. Bond put down his cup of juice and shrank against Q’s side, making Q jump a little. Mark, however, also melted, and smiled kindly at the “shy” youngster hiding in Q’s shadow.

“His name is James,” R told Mark. “He’s 007’s son.”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. “Well,” he said. Then, to Bond, “How old are you, lad?”

“I’m ten,” Bond answered.

“Bit old to be hiding in people’s shadows, eh?”

“Leave off,” Q grunted, tearing a piece off his doughnut. “His mum dumped him on 007 and 007 dumped him on me.”

“Sorry, sir. Um, should I tell the others?”

Q shrugged. R nodded. Bond sipped his juice.

In fifteen minutes the story was known throughout Q-branch: Little James’ mother had brought him to James the First, and left him. James the First had a deep-cover mission to complete, so he’d taken him to… Q? How baffling. And when Q had taken Little James to M, M had simply said to take care of him until James the First came back.

“Can I call you Jim?” Mark asked jokingly.

“No,” Bond answered, eyes glinting, “And if you do I’ll take out your knee.”

“No need to be rude, _Jim_ ,” Q had put in calmly. Bond punched his leg, but his little arms were too thin and weak to do any damage.

Everyone accepted Little James happily, and made a pet of him. Once Little James got over his “shyness”, he was quite the ingratiating little bugger. He helped file papers. He fetched things back and forth. He used his puppy-dog eyes and shy smile to endear himself to everyone. He was a perfect angel.

He also seemed to have become attached to Q. It was vaguely annoying, having a shadow following him everywhere at a trot, getting in the way when Q turned too sharply, tugging his sleeve when he wanted attention. But Q had cats. _Needy_ cats. He could handle one little not-child.

Q tried to shut himself away in his workroom so he could work in peace and not have to worry about Bond sifting through Q’s half-finished projects, but after ten minutes of blessed silence he heard a child’s quavering voice raised in entreaty.

“Oh no,” Q groaned, and stood immediately, stalking to the door and yanking it open to glare down at Bond, who sniffled and stared up at him with large, watery, pleading blue eyes. Those outside looked at Q reproachfully, until he glared at them, too, and they hurriedly went back to work.

“Get in here,” Q muttered, and Bond scurried in past him, grinning.

Q shut the door and scowled at Bond, who was peering around with great interest. “You’re shameless,” he said flatly, putting his hands on his hips. “I hope you don’t expect me to pretend to be as enamored as the others, because I refuse to.”

“Certainly I’m shameless,” was the impish answer. “That’s why everyone loves me. And I’d be checking your food for poison if you started acting like I’m just the most precious little thing.” Bond pulled a face and the corner of Q’s mouth twitched.

“You’re a little old to be called precious, aren’t you?” Q inquired carelessly. “Ten years old, that’s practically grown up.”

Bond grunted instead of answering, wandering away further into the room. Q’s lips thinned, then he sighed quietly, shoulders slumping, and went back to his desk to work on the formulas. He didn’t know why it nettled him so much that Bond wasn’t his usual banter-filled self. They’d both had a terrible shock that morning— _early_ that morning, nearly 3AM—and he had no idea how the rain had affected Bond. He just had to wait until Cynthia deigned to give him those damn test results.

Until then, he’d try not to be annoyed that Bond wasn’t as aggravating as he should be.

~~~\0/~~~

Q is asleep. James is supposed to be asleep too, but he’s not particularly tired. Instead, he sits outside Q’s door and thinks about him.

About how the light makes a rainbow of browns and tawnies and golds in Q’s hair when it hits it just right. About how dark and green Q’s eyes are. About how gentle and lilting and light Q’s voice is. About how snarky he is, dear god, the _mouth_ on that man. About how terrifyingly smart he is.

James just sits and thinks, lost in simple appreciation, smiling at nothing, until the sun comes up.

~~~\0/~~~

Q stretched and yawned, looking around his workroom. It was time to go home. Where the hell had Bond got to?

Someone knocked on the door. He got up, wincing as his shoulders and back twinged, and started for the door—

“I’ll get it,” came a sleepy voice, and Bond crawled out from under the same table he’d chosen that morning, when this whole debacle first began. His clothes were sleep-wrinkled and his short hair was sticking at weird angles. Q sat back down and watched, blinking, as Bond got up and trotted across the room to open the door.

Standing in the portal was M. He frowned to see that Q was still in his chair, until Bond cleared his throat pointedly and M looked down. A startled look passed across his features before being replaced by coolness and a raised eyebrow.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” he inquired dryly.

“Bugger bedtimes,” Bond replied crossly, and turned away to walk over to Q. Glaring up at him, Bond asked frankly, “Are you done yet?”

“I am, actually,” Q answered. He looked up at M again. “Unless you have something for me, sir?”

“I wanted to know why I’m hearing rumors that you’re going to adopt ‘Little James’.”

Both Q and James stared at him. “…Surely that can’t be everything,” Q said finally, “Or you’d have just called me up to your office.”

“I want to see your de-aging machine.”

“It’s a de-aging _serum_ ,” Q grumbled, standing automatically. “The machine is just the delivery sys—why would you want to see it?”

“Just show me it,” M sighed, and Q led him to where he’d dismantled the capsule. All the larger parts were spread on the floor; the smaller bits were arranged lovingly on the table beside it. Q had had to shove many precious projects too close to one another to make way. He watched M’s face as the older man studied the pieces.

He should have been watching Bond.

~

James was bored, and more tired than he had any right to be. A nap on hard concrete hadn’t helped. It just made him sore.

So he wandered the workshop some more while M asked about the project and Q answered warily, careful not to touch anything. He’d noticed that he was a lot clumsier now, less coordinated—almost as if he _were_ ten years old and hadn’t had thirty-five years of training to make him a smoothly-running killing machine. He didn’t like it. He liked it even less than the looming.

Strangely enough, Q didn’t loom. None of the other boffins loomed, either, but that was because he wasn’t scared of them. Q, though… he was wary of Q. Q who had threatened him quietly seriously over the com. Q who had lashed him verbally until James’ ego bled out and he had to resort to stubbornness. Q who had withheld equipment because he “didn’t see how they would affect the mission”.

Q who could be bought with a box of exotic tea. Q who handed out fancy new toys like party favors when the agents were good. Q who had deflected those who tried to pry into “Little James” past.

A rough kind of protection, that last one. Maybe he was as off-kilter by this fiasco as James.

No, he couldn’t be. James was very sure of it. Q must be taking this in stride. After all, James had become his guinea pig for his “unnatural machine” that—

He tripped over something, knocked into the table, and felt a hard thunk on the back of his head, before everything disappeared into darkness.

~

Q whipped around and caught Bond before he fell to the floor, lifting the not-a-child into his arms with a grunt and inspecting the lump on the back of his head with careful fingers. There was blood on his short blond hair. Q ignored the mortar and pestle on the floor and headed straight for the door.

“What the hell just happened?!” M demanded, following Q closely.

“I believe what happened, sir, is that Little James here wasn’t watching where he was going,” Q answered smoothly, though he was beginning to panic slightly. Blood was still oozing from the knot on James’ skull, and he didn’t know what to do, really. Medical. Get to medical. They’d know what to do.

Bond groaned and stirred. Q cupped his hand over the back of Bond’s neck and the not-a-child went still again. “Don’t move your head,” Q muttered to him, “Not until we get to Medical.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Bond slurred back, but relaxed again against Q’s shoulder.

They were halfway there and garnering stares from the people staying late when Bond whispered, “You smell nice.”

Q stiffened, but kept walking. Since he didn’t know what to say, he said nothing.

Cynthia received them. Q gave a short, terse analysis of what had happened and set Bond down. Bond wobbled, caught himself with a hand on Q’s arm… and immediately fell down. Q caught him again and sighed heavily.

“It’s apparently much worse than I thought,” he told Cynthia, frowning. “I don’t know how, though, it wasn’t very heavy…”

“It hit him right in the worst spot.” Cynthia pointed, before taking Bond’s hand and started to lead him away. He clung tightly to Q, who was forced to come with. “We’ll patch it up and do a scan and if all is well just take him home and have him lie down. With any luck it won’t take too long for him to heal up.”

“Stop talking over my head,” Bond muttered irritably, but he wobbled again and Q had to grab him quickly.

“No,” Cynthia replied.

Bond sighed in defeat.

Cynthia and another nurse took over when they reached the examination room, leaving Q outside with M. M had just opened his mouth to say something when Bond’s clear child voice said, quite fiercely, “ _No!_ I refuse!” There was quiet speech from the nurses, but Bond’s voice rose over them, “No! I’m not having another scan! I _hate_ those fuckers!”

“ _Language_ , James!” the second nurse gasped.

“You’re going to be scanned,” Cynthia growled, “Or so help me I’ll get Q in here to threaten you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think he will. Q?”

Q sighed heavily, murmured, “Just a moment, sir,” and walked into the examination room. Bond was sitting on the examination table, glaring fiercely, which didn’t make much of an impact when he was barely 54 inches tall and was looking distinctly green in the face. Q walked right up to him, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, “I’ll rig all your cars to break down when you go above 80 miles per hour if you don’t let them scan to make sure you’re not going to die of internal bleeding.”

Bond paled, as Q had known he would. There were two things in Bond’s life that you did not fuck with; his cars and his weapons. Q liked to improve weapons, but, as much as he adored automobiles, he wasn’t above ruining one to put Bond in his place.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispered back.

“I most certainly would. Now let the nice nurses take care of you.”

Bond gave him a scowl that promised painful things, but allowed himself to be escorted out of the examination room.

“What did you threaten him with?” M asked, leaning in the doorway after they’d passed.

“I said I’d melt his toy cars.” Q shrugged. “Harsh, I know.”

M raised an eyebrow. “I see. Now, about that machine you were working on… have you called the old Q about it?”

“Yes.” Q deflated just thinking about it. “He was… not pleased.”

“Mm. Come with me, we’ll talk further in my office.”

~

Such a cruel world he lived in, to have such threats made against his cars. And all over a stupid scan!

James grumbled when they brought out the wheelchair, and protested loudly when he was shooed into it, but fell back to grumbling and muttering, arms crossed tightly over his chest, sulking, as they made their way through the halls. He did feel rather wobbly.

Had he really said “you smell nice”?

Further contemplation was delayed when he was ordered up on to the table, with _no fidgeting_. He laid down quietly, clenching his fists and hissing in pain as the back of his head touched the pads. His pain tolerance had lowered; he was, physically, in every way a child.

He was going to make Q pay for this. Even if he did smell nice.

The scan didn’t take long. When it was done, Cynthia insisted he sit in the wheelchair again; there was no bleeding or permanent damage, but he would suffer symptoms for a while yet. Since it had already been shown that he wasn’t very stable when standing, it was best to minimize the chance of him falling over.

Q wasn’t in the hall. James frowned. Wasn’t Q supposed to be pretending to be his babysitter? Where was he? Maybe he and M had gone up to M’s office. Why had M even left the office? Questions that James hadn’t considered and was now angry at himself for not asking whirled in his head. Cynthia noticed his brooding frown, but she was well-versed in his moods, and said nothing. It was the other nurse, the one who’d scolded him for language, who said kindly, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You’ll see. He’s a good caretaker.”

James’ interest was piqued immediately. “How do you know?” he asked carefully.

“Well, there was that time he brought in his cats—he said his flat was being fumigated. Those cats never left his side, and he was always cooing at them and making sure they were safe. And then there were the puppies… and then the disastrous Bring You Child to Work Day. He took over and had the older children help build a playpen for the younger ones, and then he kept all the big ones distracted learning coding. It was quite a sight.”

James almost said something indignant about never being told this important detail about the Quartermaster—but he’d never asked, and it wasn’t exactly a quality one shared with a subordinate. Most agents would see it as weakness. Q couldn’t afford to have them see him as weak.

James was quiet the whole way back to the receiving area.

He was parked in a corner and told not to move, an order he’d heard and disobeyed many times before, while Cynthia rang Q. James kicked his feet and poked gingerly at the bandaged knot on the back of his head. He twiddled his thumbs. He counted ceiling tiles. He got more and more bored and restless as time went on, until he wanted to run in circles until he fell down again. But that was a childish thing to do, so instead he started mentally naming all the towns and villages he’d ever been to. He’d just gotten into the thirties when he felt a first yawn well up in his chest. He bit down on it angrily and kept going.

He was in the fifties and struggling to think of another when the second yawn crept up and pulled his jaws apart so wide they hurt. It was late; he was ten. He curled up in the wheelchair and fell asleep.

~

Q didn’t want to bother waking Bond. He was exhausted and miserable and just wanted to go home. So he carefully picked up the sleeping not-a-child, being extremely gentle with a care for his head, and settled him on Q’s hip. Somehow, Bond got his arms around Q’s neck, but other than that he was limp, and snored against Q’s shoulder. Q nodded to the nurses and single doctor who’d been watching Bond, gave a wan smile, and walked out.

Q was stronger than most people suspected. He didn’t do weights or machines or any of that, but it takes strength to haul parts and build machines and work with metals. He had a treadmill at home, too, with a little mount for his (modified) tablet so he could work while he ran. So, while he wasn’t used to carrying children instead of machinery, it didn’t throw him off that much. He just hoped Bond didn’t wake up and decide to be difficult.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Bond said suddenly, voice weak and wobbly.

Q immediately stopped in his tracks. “I don’t think I can reach the facilities in time,” he replied, looking around anyway and trying in vain to recall if there was anywhere close by.

“Just… don’t… move.”

Q held very still, as Bond took ten slow, measured breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. After the tenth one, Bond nodded, and Q began walking again, slowly and as smoothly as he could.

They needed to stop twice more before they found a toilet, and then Q had to wait while Bond threw up. When Bond finished rinsing his mouth, he held up his arms with a mulish expression.

“You’re too big to be carried all the time,” Q complained, but picked him up anyway and rubbed his back absently as they neared the door to the parking garage. Bond was asleep again by the time Q reached his car, a black Porsche 911 Carrera 4, and didn’t even grunt as Q settled him in the passenger seat and buckled him in.

Of course, by the time they were home, Bond was awake and staring around at the interior, and Q found himself nervous at the inspection.

“It’s no Aston, but it works,” he defended himself.

“It’s nice,” Bond agreed absently, running his fingertips along the stitching on the seat. “Not what I expected, but nice.”

Q felt odd for a moment. He’d expected more derision than that, perhaps a sneering quip about Q’s taste in machines and how it reflected on the rest of his life. But it hardly mattered. He got out and went over to Bond’s side of the car to open the door. Bond slid out and looked around, his face distinctly queasy.

This was by no means the most beautiful neighborhood, but it was good enough. Q had chosen to park on the very top level of the parking garage, sharing the space with three other cars, because he liked to look out at the view and sigh over it before going inside. Today he did his usual scan of the horizon, smiling a little, and turned to go to the lift—

Bond tugged on Q’s sleeve. Automatically, Q scooped him up. Bond settled against Q and sighed deeply.

“Why do you like being carried?” Q asked, just curious, as he headed for the lift.

“Because… do you have food?”

“Yes, of course.” Q tried to give Bond a questioning look, but his little bandaged head was resting on Q’s shoulder and therefore he could not see the look. Q sighed too and pressed the lift button.

~~~\0/~~~

Q is doing the crossword when The Unholy Terror sits next to him. Q glances up and raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” he inquires.

“Can I borrow your car?” James asks innocently, clasping his hands in his lap.

“Depends on where you’re going.”

“Just to the shops.”

“So you’ll be out all night.”

“Will you be worried?”

“Not particularly. You can take care of yourself, as you’ve said many times before.” He would’ve missed the flash of disappointment if he didn’t look up, surprised by the silence. “What? Do you _want_ me to worry?”

“Yes,” James answers simply.

“I’m not your parent, Bond, nor your guardian. Do whatever you like. Just bring my car back in one piece.”

“That’s not the _point_!”

Q looks up sharply, but James is already storming towards the door, snatching the keys and yanking his coat off the hook. Q stares after him long after the door has slammed shut, wondering what on earth the point is.

~~~\0/~~~

The cats, Ariel and Paddington, decided they liked Bond very much.

Q smiled, a little evilly, as Ariel patted at Bond’s nose and Paddington flopped in his lap, both purring like thunder. Bond himself looked terrified at having two felines gracing him with their presence at once; they looked a sight bigger in his little lap than they ever did in Q’s.

“That one,” Q pointed to the lithe black-and-white cat, “Is Ariel, after the spirit in The Tempest; and the fluffball,” the ginger ragdoll cat, “Is Paddington, because he’s really just a big teddy bear.”

Both cats turned their furry faces to Q and purred in his direction before turning back to Bond, who did not look in the least reassured.

“When will they let me up?” he asked in a quavering voice.

“When they feel like it. You can’t order cats around, 007.” Q set about making dinner, canned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He had the skills to make the soup from scratch, but he rarely had the time. So, canned it was.

“James.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you call me James?”

Q looked over at Bond, surprised. Bond was frowning at Q, hands buried deep in cat-fur, giving soothing pets. “Everyone else keeps calling me that,” he pointed out. “Why don’t you?”

“Because everyone else thinks you’re James Bond’s son, and as such it is more social acceptable to call you by your first name. I, however, know that you aren’t a child, and so I refuse to treat you like one. Believe me, you’ll get tired of being the pet eventually.” Q turned back to whisking milk into the tomato soup.

“You know all about that, do you?” was Bond’s soft reply.

Q sighed quietly, but did not answer. Of course he knew. Bounced around in the system for so long, brought home by a trio of brothers, who patted his head and gave him treats and new toys and treated him like a dog, a performing animal, while he hacked and hacked and raked in money for them… and he’d thought that was love. Being the nice compliant pet.

But then the fire…

Q shook off the memories and got back to cooking.


	3. Bugger.

James knows he’s sulking and he doesn’t care.

He nurses his drink and listens to the carefree chatter of the girl who’s too drunk to notice he’s not interested. It’s all about her boyfriend, her circle of friends, and how college is going. It’s all about how wonderful everything is. It’s all so happy and delightful and sweet that he could just _scream_.

He’s happy for her, for this random girl he doesn’t know and doesn’t really want to know, he really is. It’s been a while since he’s heard anything but morose whinging from a drunk person. But he doesn’t care. He just wants to be miserable in peace.

Eventually the girl leaves, and is immediately replaced by a man who also happens to be very drunk. He peers at James, then says bluntly, “I’ve seen you before. Yeah, I’ve seen you with that queer that works for the government.”

“Oh?” James replies nonchalantly, fighting the urge to bristle.

“Yeah, the one who can’t brush his hair. You living with him? Of course you are. You’re not queer too, are you? I hate queers. Unnatural. Man shalt not lie with man. You’re not fucking him are you?”

“No,” James growls, “I’m not.”

“Good. Christ, I hate queers. You be careful he doesn’t start coming on to you. He tried flirting with me once, I knocked him down on his arse.”

James carefully sets down his glass.

“Can’t trust them queers. They’re always—“

James slams his fist into the man’s gut.

~~~\0/~~~

Ariel and Paddington refused to sleep anywhere but with Bond, so Q let them. He tried not to feel jealous—they were _his_ cats, after all—and simply set about washing up. Bond had been falling asleep over his soup, so Q had taken it from him and sent him to bed. Now Q heard nothing else in the flat but himself and the sounds of washing.

Usually at this time he’d be lounging on the couch with his laptop, his cats curled or draped on his legs, working. Maybe drinking some tea. Maybe have the telly on, some ridiculous show or another, as background noise. Maybe not standing here reminiscing about bad times and bad people.

The fire.

He looked at his arm, bared by a rolled-up sleeve; the scar only started there. It extended all the way up to his shoulder. There was more scarring on his side and back, but he never looked at that. It had only been second-degree. He’d only been screaming for three hours before they found him.

But before the fire. When he’d been pampered and petted and praised. When all three brothers had taken it in turns to have friends over, or take him to see friends, where he could be seen and admired because what an intelligent, pert, precious little thing he was! Little Matthew, that’s what they’d called him, after the eldest brother, and never mind his _real_ name (not that he’d ever wanted anything to do with it). And oh, how he’d preened and did his best to please and impress, because finally someone was showing appreciation for him. Finally someone was showing him love.

But appreciation isn’t love. Being used isn’t love. Being left to die in a blazing house isn’t—

Q quietly finished drying the dishes and went to his treadmill, setting up his tablet, before going to his room and changing into shorts and a tank. Then he padded out to the living room again, started the treadmill, and began to run.

~

James woke to the sound of whirring and beeping.

The cats were standing by the door, staring at it. As James watched, curled up in the lavender-scented guest bed, Ariel delicately stepped up on to Paddington’s back and turned the doorknob perfectly. The door swung open and the cats trotted out.

The whirring lessened. James heard Q murmuring something to his cats. Perhaps he was on the treadmill James had spotted earlier. James listened for a while to the whirring, the faint sound of bare feet striking the belt, the indistinct beeps that sounded vaguely like monitor noises. Then his curiosity got the best of him, and he sat up in the bed, smiling slightly at the smell of lavender. He’d found a little sachet under the pillow, and hadn’t removed it. Maybe Q had forgotten about it. But he slid out of bed, careful not to get tangled in blankets, and padded out of the guest room.

Q was, indeed, on the treadmill, focused on the tablet propped up in front of him. His left side was to James; therefore, James saw the scar running from Q’s forearm up to this shoulder, and presumably spreading past that. James’ breath started to come sharply, as his focus narrowed to the scar. It looked very old; from childhood, perhaps. But that didn’t mean James was any less angered by it.

“Who did that?” he heard himself snap.

Q started, stumbled, and almost fell, only just managing to get his feet on the unmoving sides of the treadmill. His head whipped around, and he stared at James, looking just a little bit guilty, like he’d been trying to hide something.

“Who did what?” he inquired, voice shaking just a little.

“ _That_.” James pointed to the scar, and, oddly enough, Q relaxed.

“Oh. That’s old. The people who did it are either dead or in prison.” Q went back to running.

James allowed himself a little time to watch Q, scanning for other injuries. He circled the treadmill, staring hard. Nothing. Those were some lovely lean muscles, but they only garnered a cursory glance before James moved on, staring up at Q’s face. The Quartermaster was engrossed with whatever he was doing.

“It seems you’re perfectly healthy,” Q announced suddenly, swiping up on his tablet. “Cynthia sent me your test results. The only thing “wrong”, so to speak, is that your immune system is pretty weak. Other than that, you’re as healthy a child as any.”

He’d slowed to a brisk walk, so he could speak in full sentences, and James was still standing next to him. “I’m not a child, though,” James pointed out, glancing at Q’s perky little butt. While he didn’t feel anything sexual combined with his appreciation, at least it _was_ appreciation.

Q missed the glance and its significance. “Mmm, you are according to your hormone checks. I didn’t think the rain would work so… thoroughly. And quickly. It took me seven minutes to drive to MI6 when I saw you on the monitors, and at some point between those seven minutes and when we found you, you ended up in the capsule and the rain began working.” Q had picked up speed again, walking even quicker as he began muttering about equations and calculations and concentrations. James listened with only half an ear. He was thinking, also.

So. He was, essentially, an adult brain in a child’s body. He tried to wrap his mind around the implications, but it felt so surreal… He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before.

His head was aching again, and he knew he’d soon have a splitting migraine. Quietly, he left Q to his thinking and went back to bed.

~

Q slept deeply for exactly three hours. Then he was up and getting ready for the day.

“Bond,” he called through the shut door, “Bond, it’s time to get up.”

An angry groan was his only answer. He sighed and pushed open the door, knowing full well that there were no weapons in Bond’s reach. Bond still sat bold upright and scrambled for a gun that wasn’t there. Ariel and Paddington voiced their displeasure and slipped out of bed, twining around Q’s legs in greeting and bumping into one another. Q waited as Bond sorted himself out, then repeated patiently, “It’s time to get up. I’ll cook breakfast. We’ll buy you some new clothes on our way in to work.”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Bond protested sleepily, but his heart wasn’t in it. He slid out of bed with a thump and plodded over to Q, thunking his head against Q’s side and leaving it there. “I’m tired.”

“I know.” Q inspected Bond’s head carefully, cupping one hand around the back of Bond’s neck. He ignored the way Bond sighed and relaxed against the touch. Weirdo.

“Hurts.”

“I have painkillers. You’ll be fine.”

“Paracetamol, not aspirin.”

“Yes, 007, I am aware. Come on. Food and drugs, then we’ll find you some clothes. No suits, though; you’ll just get them dirty from being so much closer to the floor.” Q grinned as Bond pinched his arm, hard. He’d pinched the scar, though, and the nerves there were just damaged enough that he didn’t feel it.

Bond ate slowly, though the nausea from the night before seemed to have worn off. A good sign. Q found some painkillers and set them beside Bond’s glass of juice; he took them right away. Soon, Q was cooing goodbyes to Ariel and Paddington, who were both crying in their special “Don’t leave us!” voices. As always, Q wavered… but today he had Bond to take care of, so with one last pat he led the way out of the flat and locked it.

“Do they always cry like that?” Bond asked, half-skipping to keep up with Q’s longer strides.

Q slowed down on the stairs. “Yes. It’s very disheartening. But according to the neighbors they don’t cry for long, so I suppose it doesn’t hurt them _that_ much.” But it must, because whenever Q came home, Paddington would come racing to meet him and twine around his legs until he almost tripped, and Ariel would meow loudly until Q found him hiding wherever he got to when he wanted to sulk. That was why he kept to a schedule, so he could come home at exactly the same time every night. Such needy little things.

He automatically reached out, still thinking of his cats, and petted Bond’s hair.

“Hey!” Bond slapped his hand away, scowling. “Don’t do that! I’m not Paddington!”

“Ah—yes. Sorry.” Q tucked his hands in his pockets.

The drive to the shops was uneventful. It was just edging into summer, so the shop that Q chose was full of nothing but summer clothes in bright colors and patterns that hurt to look at in bright light. Q could see the horror on Bond’s face when they entered the children’s section, and it made him smile.

“So would you like green or blue shoes?” he asked mildly, earning an ice-eyed glare. “What? You can’t keep wearing those nasty trainers. Where did you even find them?”

“In the back of your coat closet, while you were asleep,” Bond grumbled. “Why do _you_ still have them?”

“Ariel plays with them sometimes. Come on, hurry up, or we’ll be late.”

Eventually, Bond chose an eye-searing red t-shirt, khaki capris, and red shoes. They approximated sock and pant sizes, and Q bribed the store clerk to let Bond change into the new clothes in the fitting room (once they were purchased, of course). Then they threw the old things in the new bag and walked out.

“I feel disgusting,” Bond complained once they were in the car again.

“You look fine,” Q told him absently, frowning as he was cut off. Again.

“No, I mean I haven’t showered in two days and I feel _disgusting_.”

“This from the man who regularly goes a week without bathing in the field.”

“That’s in the field,” Bond grumbled. “This is home.”

“True. That’s the third time!” Q burst out, having to stomp on his brakes quite suddenly as a car came zooming out in front of him. “And they’re all so slow! Oh, great, another red light. We’ll never get there in time. Alright, that’s it; tomorrow, we’re taking the Tube.”

Bond’s eyes went very wide and his face turned horrified. “The Tube?” he repeated in faltering tones.

“Yes, the Tube. Don’t tell me you’re scared of trains.”

“That’s not it.”

“Well, what is ‘it’?”

Bond was silent for so long that Q glanced at him, surprised. Bond was frowning at his knees, little hands clenched on the fabric over them. “…I don’t like being small,” he said finally, quietly.

Q blinked. “No one’s gonna run you over,” he promised. “If they do, I’ll ruin their phones.”

Bond looked up at him, thoughtfully. “You really would, wouldn’t you,” he murmured.

“Of course I would,” Q replied, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

They were both silent for the rest of the drive. Q found this both welcome and confusing. Bond kept looking at him, unreadable glances that made Q rather uneasy. But Bond would never give him a straight answer. So Q didn’t ask.

There was much cooing and plying of breakfast food when they arrived at Q-branch, and Q tried many times to escape the pack of minions centered around Bond; but every time he tried, Bond would grab his hand and haul him back until he stood beside the not-a-child once more.

Eventually, though, Q snapped at everyone to get back to work, and they did so, leaving Bond’s arms full of donuts, cakes, jam and marmalade sandwiches, and other sweet things. Bond looked far too smug for his own good, following Q to his desk at a trot. Someone had found a stool and set it at the desk; Q ignored it, and Bond hopped right on up, laying out his breakfast and eating far more neatly than any other child of Q’s acquaintance.

“You’re cleaning up the crumbs,” he told Bond severely.

“Yes, Quartermaster,” Bond replied meekly, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smirk.

Q got to work.

He almost forgot about Bond, he was so busy. There were hackers at the gate again, and while most had come to respect the fact that Q’s walls were (mostly) impenetrable, there were always new up-and-comers who wanted to show off. Q defeated them easily, lazily, and grabbed enough information to track them down later. He liked collecting hackers. None of them knew they were working _for_ MI6 when he tasked them with making new codes; they just knew that Q had money, and was willing to buy whatever they could give him that was unique and strong.

Q had no illusions about himself. His intellect would, one day, become rutted. He would get complacent. He would turn into Boothroyd, unable to learn by sheer force of arrogance. He hoped that day would be long in coming, and he encouraged his minions to challenge him when they thought there was a better way, and he forced himself to listen with an open mind. Often, distressingly often, they were wrong and he was right, and that just made him even more arrogant; but he _knew_ that was what was happening to him, and thus, he could protect himself and those he’d come to trust and care about from his own folly.

He even cared about his pet hackers, even though they’d turn on him in an instant if he left a single opening. It kept him on his toes.

Something at his elbow made a throaty meow, and he automatically reached out and patted it gently. “Don’t worry, Paddington, I’ll feed you and your brother in a minute,” he promised distractedly—and then he realized that the “fur” under his hand was actually short, bristly hair, and the skull was much too large for a cat.

“I told you,” Bond spoke to someone else in a tired voice. “He thinks I’m his cat.”

Q immediately lifted his hand and elbowed Bond’s shoulder, just hard enough to jostle him, but not as hard as he would’ve if Bond had been his usual full-grown self. “Stop acting like him and maybe I wouldn’t,” he snapped, and finished fighting off the latest attacker. “There. Next on the schedule is—“

“Meeting with R&D,” R reminded him helpfully, holding out the papers. “Sorry, sir, it can’t be put off any longer.”

Q sighed deeply. “Alright. You, Mr. Impersonator, get to stay here and help.”

Bond, who was halfway off the stool, gaped at him. “But—but—“ he stuttered, in a perfect imitation of a confused child. “But I thought I was supposed to stay with you!”

“Yes, well, R&D is even more dangerous than my workshop, and you’re still recovering from that concussion,” Q pointed out. “Don’t worry, you can build something with all those magnets we keep around.”

Uh-oh. Bond was doing the pleading look again, and if Q didn’t know better, he’d think Bond actually meant what he said next, in plaintive tones; “But I wanna come with you.”

Q was obviously supposed to melt. Instead, he leveled a stern look at Bond. “Stop it,” he ordered quietly, too quietly for R to hear. “Manipulating the others, that’s fine; but I have work to do, and if I have to keep worrying about you I won’t get any of it done.”

The pleading faded to sullenness. “You wouldn’t have to worry,” Bond replied softly. “I’d just stay out of the way and let everyone talk over my head and act like I’m an idiot just because I’m a kid now.”

Damn him, he knew right where to hit. Sympathy twanged in Q’s heart and he felt an unreasonable amount of anger on Bond’s behalf. Bond was _smart_. He was witty, intelligent, sly. Just because he was in a child’s body didn’t mean his mind was one whit duller. And Q knew what it was like to be smarter than most adults and still be underestimated because of his age.

This was manipulation of the highest caliber, and Q fell for it. Reluctantly.

“ _Fine_. Come along. I’ll find something for you to do. And it won’t be paperwork.”

Bond’s face lit up, and he slid to the floor, clinging to Q’s sleeve as he wobbled a little. Q automatically caught him by the elbow, and didn’t even notice when Bond didn’t let go of him.

R noticed, but she didn’t say anything.

The emergency meeting with R&D went well. Everyone was much better behaved with Bond there; there were no shouting matches, very little swearing, and Q didn’t have to pull rank even once. He had Bond help him demonstrate proper fire safety, by letting him experiment with chemicals until there was a small explosion; in the process of this “experimentation”, Bond also created a brand new explosive liquid that reacted to water. This was perfect for practicing fire safety, and Q grinned quickly at Bond behind everyone else’s back.

Bond was smug for the rest of the meeting. Q didn’t think about it too hard.

After that, they retreated to the garage, where Q had Bond help him work on fitting machine guns to a new Porsche. Some of the mechanics were a little unsure, but when they saw how nimble and knowledgeable Bond was, they shook their heads and murmured how he was definitely his father’s son. The others were just glad to have an extra pair of hands around.

Bond went everywhere with Q again, and that day he truly dove into whatever project Q set in front of him. On a whim, Q gave him paper and drawing tools and asked him to design a dune buggy while he narrowed down a list of enemy agents; Bond agreed quite happily, and soon both of them were bent over their projects, muttering to themselves and sometimes to each other. It was… companionable. Less like being followed by a needy cat, and more like having a cohort who was interested in many of the same things.

“So _are_ you going to adopt him, sir?” one minion whispered to Q, when he finally relented and took Bond up to the breakroom for lunch.

Q frowned at her and she swallowed hard, but did not look away.

“I already have two cats,” Q answered. “I don’t need a third who can’t even land on his feet. Where did you hear that ridiculous rumor, anyway?”

“One of the 00s,” she answered.

Q’s lips thinned. “Do you remember which one?”

“No, sir.”

Then they’d all have to be punished until one of them stepped forward. Q thanked the minion for the information and went to take the coffeepot away from Bond before he got the jitters.

~

James liked being Q’s shadow.

It was strange, and rather alarming, but true. He liked looking up and seeing Q there, always. It was a little like with Kincade, who had always been protector, teacher, and friend. But Q wasn’t a protector or teacher, and he certainly wasn’t a friend. He was… Q. Just Q.

James liked working with him. Liked talking to him. Liked being referred to as a third cat to take care of, though he did grumble over that. He could easily see himself doing this for a long time.

But not forever. He was no one’s pet, no one’s assistant, and no matter how comforting Q’s hand felt on his hair or the back of his neck, there was a part of James that loathed such a patronizing touch.

He needed the chase. He needed the thrill of agent-work. He was feeling that stirring in his bones, and it’d only been two days—three, if you counted the day before the Disaster. Maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the sugar, maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t had alcohol in those two days. He felt clear and vibrant and wanted more than anything to _fight_.

Yes, it was probably the coffee.

But he couldn’t fight or chase or kill, so he threw himself into the tasks Q gave him. _Useful_ tasks. Tasks that required focus. Maybe Q was taking that comment about people thinking children are stupid to heart. He’d certainly looked quite fierce and almost protective when James had said it.

“So when you grow up, are you going to be the next Quartermaster?” joked Mike.

“No,” James replied, “I’m gonna be a 00-agent, just like my dad.”

Some of the boffins laughed, until they realized he was being completely serious. “Trust me, honey, you don’t want to be a double-O,” Jasmine assured him earnestly. “It’s no life for a normal, well-adjusted person.”

“Maybe I’m not normal,” James shot back. He’d been hearing a lot of periphery talk about the 00-agents from the others, more than he ever had, and it made him angry, how terrified of the agents they all were. They weren’t _all_ as broken and blood-stained as James. Look at Moneypenny, for god’s sake. She was perfectly normal, except that she could kill someone eleven different ways with a high-heeled shoe. More than eleven, actually. But other than her training, she was a normal, well-adjusted person.

Maybe that’s why she wasn’t a 00-agent.

The boffins all went quiet at James’ retort, and stared at him. He glared right back, trying to put as much adult anger as he could into it.

Q interrupted the stare-off by putting his hand on James’ shoulder and telling the boffins, “Well, now you’ve had your chat about career choices, maybe you can get back to work, before I release that new virus into your personal computers.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity, and under the cover of that, Q let go of James and beckoned for him to follow, back to Q’s office. For some reason, a deep feeling of dread crept over James at the look on his face.

~~~\0/~~~

“Let me through, please, he’s my friend.”

James, fighting the officer who is pushing him towards the car, redoubles his efforts to get away. “Q! Q!” he cries desperately, “They won’t _listen_ to me! He started it, he was saying bad things about you—“

“Get in the car!” the officer grunts, and actually picks James up and hauls him to the car a good three yards before James squirms out of his arms and darts for Q, who is pushing past the (suddenly cooperative) policemen who are trying to hold back the crowd from the pub. James slams right into Q, and finds himself crying on the other’s shoulder, with Q holding him a little awkwardly. But it feels so nice to be held, he doesn’t care about anything else. Q still smells good.

“Come on, James,” Q murmurs, “Tell me what happened.”

James does, starting with how he’d punched the man who said he’d hurt Q. The man had accused James of being queer, which James didn’t mind, and then moved on to slandering Q’s good name, saying he was a flirt and a menace and should be banned from every public house in London, and a whole slew of other, crueler things. James had punched him again, and then fists had started flying, and before he knew it the police were being called.

Q had to hush the officers at least three times during James’ tale. And he _listened_. He actually _listened_. Christ, James hadn’t known it was possible to love him any more than he already did.

When James was done, he wasn’t crying anymore, and most of the crowd had dissipated. He kept his face firmly planted in Q’s shoulder, and waited for his verdict.

“Well, I do appreciate your attempts to protect my honor,” Q began dryly, “And I must say that, even objectively, he probably deserved it. But you can’t just get into a bar fight and expect not to face consequences. Come on. Get in the car. We’ll talk more when you’ve sobered up.”

James allowed Q to herd him to the police car, and got in meekly. Q brushed his fingertips against James’ cheek and shut the door.

~~~\0/~~~

“They said 00-agents are scary!”

“Well, your lot kind of are,” Q answered, locking the door behind them. He didn’t want anyone overhearing. “Think about it for a moment. You’re trained assassins. We’ve seen what the _bad_ guys do when they’re assassins; what makes you think we’d be less wary around the good guys? And we’ve all heard stories about turncoats and counterspies.”

Bond stared at him, as if he genuinely hadn’t thought of that. Rallying quickly, he retorted, “That hardly ever reaches Q-branch, though. You’re safe down here—“

Q raised an eyebrow. “Silva,” he said softly.

Bond shut up.

“No one’s safe, 007. You of all people should know that.” Q knelt in front of him and sat back on his heels, so he was roughly level with Bond. “They’re scared. So what? When we get you back to normal, you won’t have to deal with them as much. You’ll be cool, aloof Agent 007 and they’ll be the little boffins whose life work is to arm and aid you.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that slipped into his tone. “We won’t matter anymore. So why should you care now?”

Bond looked like Q had slapped him. He beetled his brow, drew a breath; but his heart wasn’t in it, and he let the breath coming whooshing back out. Instead, he looked at the floor, little fists clenched, hiding his face from Q.

Q sighed and stood, resting his fingertips on Bond’s shoulder before walking around him—or trying to. Bond suddenly grabbed Q’s cardigan and buried his face in Q’s side, startling the other. He stood very still, as Bond leaned against him heavily.

“I’m sorry,” the not-a-child muttered.

Q stroked his hair gently. “It’s alright.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well, no. But if I say it enough you’ll believe me.”

“No I won’t.”

Q sighed heavily and cupped his hand against the back of Bond’s neck, thumb brushing over the still-raised lump on the back of his head. “Look, Bond… I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just how it feels, when you’re being particularly obstinate. I know you’re not like that all the time.”

“I am, though,” Bond whispered.

Q felt even more uncomfortable now. “Well… can you try not to be? For the sake of those of us who _aren’t_ scared stiff of you?”

“Yes.”

Q actually smiled a little. “Thank you.”


	4. Christ almighty!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is a page short

“I’VE GOT IT!”

James jerked awake and scrambled for a weapon, but there was nothing. Blinking sleep-blurred eyes, he squinted against the light streaming from behind an excited, sleep-deprived, clad-only-in-his-pants Q.

“I know why it worked so well!” Q announced, grinning manically. “It was—bugger, I need to write this down! Have you got a pen? Never mind, I’ll get one.” And Q whirled and ran from the room, babbling excitedly.

James slowly sat up and yawned, stretching. With Q this excited, it must be very early indeed. And now that he was awake, James wasn’t going to be able to sleep again.

Ariel and Paddington, startled by James’ sudden movements upon waking, grumbled, but ultimately fell asleep again. James slipped out of bed and padded to the closet.

Yesterday, after Q had taken him to task without actually doing so, they had sat quietly, Q working on a sniper scope, James drawing. He’d never been a good artist. Ah well, no time like the present for practice. So they’d passed the time, until it was time to leave.

Then they’d gone straight to a 24-hour shop and browsed the pitiful clothing section to scrounge up three pairs of jeans and three more shirts.

“There,” Q had murmured as they’d walked back to the car. “That should last a while.”

“When are we going to turn me back?”

“As soon as I figure out how to make an aging serum that won’t turn you into a broken old man. It shouldn’t be hard. A month or so at the most.”

James had stopped in his tracks, horrified. “A month?!”

“Yes, a month. Now get in.”

Now James stood in front of the closet and glared at the four outfits hanging neatly just a little too high for him to reach. He wanted his suits, not these ridiculous “casual” clothes. But he had to wait a month. A _month_. Christ.

He pulled out a box and balanced on it precariously to reach the first outfit in line. Should he shower this morning? No, he was mostly clean from a bath last night. So he changed his clothes and shuffled out of his room, yawning.

Q was muttering as he sat at his drafting table and drew feverishly. Did he ever work silently? James wandered over and leaned against Q’s side. Q didn’t even seem to notice. He seemed to be designing a new capsule, and was typing up copious notes on his tablet.

“Do you ever do anything not work-related?” James asked, genuinely curious.

“No,” Q answered absently, typing away, “Not really. Never have the… perhaps if I mixed those two together, at the correct proportions, it won’t explode like the last batch.” He input something on what appeared to be a type of calculator, and grimaced. “Well, it’s only a sim,” he told himself, but he didn’t sound very hopeful. “We’ll have to test it today when we get to the labs.”

James finally glanced at the clock, and blinked. It was 2AM. Plenty of time for him to take a nap. So he shrugged the shoulder not pressed against Q’s hip and stepped away. Immediately, Q’s hand shot out and dragged him back by the nape of the neck. Without looking up from his typing, Q’s free hand explored the back of James’ head with gentle fingers.

“How’s your concussion?” he asked absently, but James was very sure he was anything but absent. So he yawned pointedly, ignoring the pleasant shivers that ran up his spine when Q passed his fingers through James’ short hair.

“All better. Can I go nap now? It’s 2AM.”

“Mm.” Q let go and went back to drafting. “Cynthia said she wants to do a checkup today. None of us trust you when you say that, you see.”

James had known that, intellectually. Hearing it spoken plainly in such a no-nonsense tone, though, stung more than a little. “I’m sorry, who’s the one who had to go to medical because they drank too much tea and refused to go to the bathroom for fourteen hours?” he asked acidly.

“Who’s the one who’s come in with broken bones, pulped flesh, missing teeth, bullet- and knife-wounds, and burns so extensive they required skin grafts, and still insisted they were fine?” Q shot back without missing a beat.

He had James there. So the not-a-child grumbled something uncomplimentary and slunk off to the sofa to sleep some more.

~

Q finished the new rough draft of his design by 4AM. He turned around, massaging his hands, and smiled softly to see Bond stretched out on the sofa, snoring. It was the most ridiculous, delicate little snort of a snore, and Q was tempted to take a video just to show everyone at Q-branch.

But then Bond would try to do the same, and probably catch Q drooling on the pillow, which had happened on more than one occasion. Also, Q slept naked. And he didn’t want Bond knowing that.

So instead of whipping out his phone, Q set about quietly gathering the things he’d need for the day. His flat had the best security available, and more that wasn’t available, so he felt safe leaving some of the more obscure, less-valuable prototypes and computer parts in safe spots around the flat. Once he had what he needed gathered into a rucksack, he sat in the chair beside the sofa, wriggled into a comfortable position, and pulled out his e-reader.

Bond woke at precisely 5AM, sat up, looked at Q, and said blurrily, “You know, you could be a cat too, if you grew fur.”

“And a tail,” Q replied, turning off his reader. He always found sleepy-Bond amusing, which was why he always insisted on visiting him in Medical when he was able to talk coherently but still wasn’t quite put together yet. He said it was to berate him for the loss of equipment, but everyone knew it was because Bond said interesting things in Q’s presence when he was off his head on painkillers and sedatives. Once, he’d even given Q his full report without prompting, dithering, evading, or leaving bits out. Q had written it all down immediately and handed it to M, pleased with his influence. M had simply raised an eyebrow and given Q a dry look.

Now Bond slid off the sofa, wobbled over to Q, and held up his arms. Q rolled his eyes but picked Bond up and settled him in Q’s lap, where the not-a-child promptly curled up and sighed, almost contentedly. Q’s arms looped around him automatically, though he didn’t pull him in close.

“We have to go to work, you know,” Q pointed out, even as he settled more comfortably into his seat.

“Take the morning off,” Bond grumbled. “You deserve it.”

“You just want to sleep some more.”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what; when we get there, I’ll scrounge up a blanket, and you can sleep on the sofa in my office. Fair?”

“…yes.”

“Excellent.” Q stood and put Bond down, then went to his room for proper clothes.

Vaguely he realized they were settling into this a little too easily. The touching, the way they spoke to each other, the ease with which they accepted each other’s presence; it was too quick. Something was wrong.

Maybe it was just that Bond was now, in every way, a child. It was easier to address him, confide in him, when he looked at Q solemnly with those big blue eyes, and never once radiated that feeling of a predator waiting for the chance to kill.

Or maybe it was that they were both resigned to this for however long it took to fix it. Bond was very good at adapting, and Q knew better than anyone how his rain worked. Bond must have been quite a needy child, though, to be so clingy and shameless about it.

These thoughts carried Q through the tasks of dressing and brushing his hair (he’d showered last night, after Bond had gone to bed), and when he packed up his things Bond was waiting by the door, bouncing on his toes. Q smiled despite himself, and leaned down to pet Ariel and Paddington, who were making their displeasure known.

“I know, loves,” he murmured, “I know, I know. I’ll bring you some fresh fish, hm? Will you forgive me if I do that?”

Paddington stopped crying, but he still tried to trip Q on his way to the door. Ariel trotted at Q’s heels, meowing insistently, until he almost shut the door on Ariel’s poor whiskers. One last scratch, and they were on their way.

They took the Tube. Bond held Q’s hand very tightly; Q returned the favor. Like hell was he going to let Bond be carried away or trampled, not when they still hadn’t figured out how to reverse the regression. Bond watched everyone and everything constantly, eyes roving from face to face, walking just a little ahead of Q; he guided the other through the crowds, finding the paths of least resistance, and when they boarded the train Bond found a fairly cleared area for him and Q to stand in. Q grabbed the bar above his head and Bond clung to his hand even tighter, eyeing everything with suspicion. Q caught him exchanging glares with a tall man in a baseball cap, and knocked their joined hands against James’ shoulder. When the not-a-child looked up at him, Q just raised an eyebrow. With an eloquent scowl, Bond returned to scanning the train.

By the time they reached their stop, everyone in their general vicinity was eyeing Bond warily, and Q was seriously considering picking him up, since that seemed to relax him. But then the doors opened, and Q tugged Bond gratefully out on to the platform.

Of course someone would take exception to Bond’s stare. A young man, perhaps twenty-five, sneered and taunted, “What’s _your_ problem, brat?”

“Your face annoys me,” Bond growled, in such a hostile tone that the young man blinked. Q immediately turned and picked Bond up, ignoring his squirming and snarled curses, some so graphic they made those who heard stare in shock.

“ _Language_ , James,” Q snapped, and Bond subsided, glaring at him. “And don’t give me that look. You can’t pick fights with people twice as big as you.”

“I bloody well _can_!”

Q rolled his eyes. “Yes, and it’ll be me scraping you off the ground. Come on, I know you don’t like the Tube, but it wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?”

Bond grumbled and wrapped his arms tightly around Q’s neck. Q sighed and rubbed his back absently as he walked, thinking tiredly that he should probably get a taxi for the rest of the way.

~~~\0/~~~

The cell is cold and uncomfortable, and James sits with his head in his hands, numb. It’s not the hangover, which is actually not that bad; it’s not the memory of crying on Q’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s made him feel completely numb inside.

Please, Q, please come save him…

~~~\0/~~~

James wanted to fight, but no one would let him. He didn’t like the Tube for a multitude of reasons, but Q wouldn’t understand them. Or… maybe he would. But that hardly mattered. What mattered was that Q wouldn’t let him pick fights, not even with any of the agents, and as soon as they reached Q’s office, Q shooed him to the couch and found a soft blanket.

“Sleep,” he ordered firmly, “And maybe you won’t be so cranky. I’ll find you some breakfast.”

James grumbled, but snuggled down under the blanket, turned his back to the room, and sighed heavily. In only a few petulant minutes, he was asleep again.

~

Q scrounged up some bagels and orange juice for Bond, but eschewed food himself. He had no appetite for anything available. And he wanted to work. So he took the bagels (toasted and loaded with butter) and the orange juice back to his office, and brought them to his desk for when Bond woke up. He glanced at the not-a-child often, calculatingly.

Eventually, Bond woke. He sat up, looked around, spotted Q, and immediately stood, trotting over to lean on Q’s side. Q handed him the plate of bagels. Bond wolfed them all down.

“Are you still snappish?” Q asked after a while.

“Yes,” Bond grumped.

“I thought of something while you were asleep. How about you and Agent Deane have a spar? I know he’s not a double-oh, but he’s good enough.”

“And he’s short,” Bond added in disgust.

“And he’s short,” Q agreed calmly, replying to Cynthia’s urgent email. “You only get an hour, though, before Cynthia descends like a Valkyrie and kidnaps you.”

Bond was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I’d like to spar with Agent Deane,” he said stiffly.

Q reached for his phone.

~

James had never felt more insulted.

Agent Deane had decided that “Little James” probably didn’t know as much as his father—and James knew that, to keep his cover, he had to show that that was the case. So he allowed Deane to put him through his paces, Deane’s respect for James and his fictional mother increasing with each move, as Deane’s eyebrows rose and rose; they almost reached his hairline before he decided that he knew one or two more tricks that James might like to know.

James wanted to snort, but he held it back. Instead he allowed Deane to patronize him slightly by showing him… oh. No, James did not know how to do that. But it shouldn’t be too hard.

It _was_ hard. First, James had to forget how to move the way he’d done all his life, as if he were taller, wider, stronger, than he was at the moment. Second, he had to train away his gawkiness—force his body to come to terms with the fact that his will was stronger than it, his mind more honed. Then, he had to actually memorize the move.

It took longer than he anticipated, and it only made him angrier. But James angry is James determined, and he stubbornly pushed himself until he got it. Agent Deane actually grinned.

“ _Very_ good!” he applauded, and James felt a genuine smile stretch his little face. “Ready for another, or do you need a rest?”

“I rest when I’m dead,” James answered loftily, and launched himself at Deane.

They had an impromptu wrestling match, which ended when James got Deane turned over and pulled his arm up behind his back. Deane laughed and didn’t even struggle. “You win, you win! Damn, I bet you could win against your own father.”

“You think so?” James asked, surprised.

Deane smiled up at him. “Hell yeah!”

James pondered that as he let Deane up, but then he couldn’t anymore because Deane asked, “Do you want to play on the gymnastics equipment?”

“I don’t play,” James corrected, slightly annoyed. “I practice. But yes, I’d love to.”

Which was a bad idea.

~

“Oh, FUCK!”

Deane was the one shouting, but James was the one crying. He couldn’t stop. It was terrifying. But his leg hurt, he couldn’t move it without sending lances of pain through his tiny, fragile body, and all he could do to make the pain not as bad was lie there on the mat and cry.

He wasn’t sobbing, but he was as near as makes no difference. He bit his lip, covered his mouth with one hand, and gingerly prodded his leg with the other. There, a break; a break in his femur from falling off the highest beam wrong. Fucking fantastic. It was gonna take _months_ to heal now, he lamented mentally.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Deane murmured, appearing at his side. “It’s okay, James. I called for Medical and Q; they should get here at the same time. Shhhh, it’s gonna be okay.”

~

It was _not_ okay, and it was Deane’s fault.

That’s what was running through Q’s head, unreasonable as it was. Logic fought valiantly, and won, inch by inch, as Q loped through the halls, his thunderous expression moving everyone out of his way. It was not Agent Deane’s fault that Bond had fallen. It was not Agent Deane’s fault his leg had broken.

It _was_ his fault Bond had been on the equipment at all.

By the time Q reached A&E, Bond was already in surgery, and Agent Deane was pasty with fear of Q’s wrath. Tanner was there, too, and when he saw Q’s eyes lock on Deane, he immediately stepped between them, bringing Q up short.

“M wanted me to warn you that if you kill him, even if you make it look like an accident, he’ll have to fire you,” Tanner told Q in a low voice.

“I won’t kill him,” Q assured him, staring over his shoulder at Deane, who was doing his best to turn invisible. “I’ll just ruin his entire life and put him in hospital for a year or so.”

Tanner seemed… taken aback. Shocked. Perhaps even a little frightened. “R wasn’t kidding,” he murmured to himself. To Q, he spoke firmly, “That isn’t permissible either. Besides, he’s already terrified. Show some benevolence. He’s a good agent, always returns his equipment, does his paperwork. He’ll do anything you ask if you spare him.”

Logic was screaming at instinct to shut up and back down, but instinct made him glance in through the window of the surgery and a surge of anger rose to see a doctor and nurses around a small body. This was Bond, though, damn it. He’d been through worse and come out fine.

“He’ll be alright,” Tanner echoed Q’s thoughts. “It was just a broken leg.”

Q ripped his gaze from the window to Tanner. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. He will.” Then his eyes flicked back to Agent Deane, who fidgeted and refused to look at Q, still terrified. “What exactly happened though? How did a spar turn into dou—James falling off a beam?”

“You’ll have to ask Agent Deane,” Tanner answered reluctantly. “But please don’t scare him to death.”

“On my honor as Quartermaster.”

They both knew that Q had no honor, but Tanner still nodded and moved out of the way. Q sailed past him to stop in front of Agent Deane, who looked ready to throw himself down at Q’s feet and grovel.

“I’m really sorry!” he burst out as soon as Q drew breath to speak, “I wasn’t looking and I know I should’ve been but he was being so careful I thought I could check my phone and I didn’t see him get to the high bar I called Medical as soon as he was on the ground I’m sorry I’ll do anything just please don’t hurt me sir!”

Q loomed over him, expression impassive, letting him babble until he had to stop and take a breath. Then Q said calmly, “I won’t hurt you. I will, however, make you do paperwork instead of letting M send you on missions.”

Agent Deane blanched. Like all agents, Deane loathed paperwork, for all that he was the only one who actually did his. And while Q had been ordered not to _physically_ hurt him, no one had said anything about mental torture. He smiled nastily.

“Glad we had this talk,” he said sweetly. “You may go now.”

Deane nodded vigorously and escaped.

“Now you’ve done it,” Tanner groaned. “When he’s over being scared, he’s going to hate you.”

“I don’t care,” Q answered, only a little petulant. He glanced through the window at the doctor and nurses. They were finished cleaning up, and were putting a cast on Bond. Poor kid. No, stop. He’s not actually a child. He’ll know how casts work. He’ll be fine.

“Bond is going to be angry too, when he comes home,” Tanner murmured, inclining his head towards the window. “Will you hold him back, or will I have to?”

“I will,” Q sighed. With the object of his rage removed, it was just… dissipating. Then he realized further repercussions of this.

At the earliest, it would take two months for Bond to heal. Even then, they’d have to be careful. And he’d had such a breakthrough this morning… he could be ready for a trial in a few weeks. Weeks.

He swore aloud, making Tanner jump, and dug his fingers in his hair, collapsing into a chair and bracing his elbows on his knees. “This is all wrong,” he muttered, “Everything’s going wrong. I should’ve known, nothing ever goes right when he’s involved—but it’s my own fucking fault this happened, christ, I’m such an _idiot_! I should never have—!” He cut himself off before he could let anything slip and buried his face in his hands.

Tanner sat carefully beside him. “Should never have what?” Tanner asked.

“Classified,” Q muttered. “Ask M. You have the clearance.”

“I believe I shall,” Tanner replied calmly. “Ah, look, they’re coming out. How is he, doctor?”

“He’ll be fine, he just needs rest. Ah, Q? Are you alright?”

Q sat up and smiled slightly at the doctor and nurses, one of whom was Cynthia. “I’m fine,” he answered. “When can I see him?”

~

“When can I see him?”

Cynthia shrugged. “As soon as he knows you’re awake,” she answered. “How do you feel?”

Concerned that his first question upon waking have been ‘Where’s Q?’. “A little sick, but fine. When will he get here?”

Cynthia was beginning to frown. “The sickness is probably the drugs,” she answered slowly. “As for Q, it really depends on what he’s doing. Why are you so concerned?”

“I… I don’t know.” The drugs. It must be the lingering effects of the drugs. “Why did you put me under like that? You never did when I was an adult.”

“Because you couldn’t stop crying and it was very distracting. Are the painkillers working?”

“I can’t feel my entire leg.”

“Probably for the best.” Cynthia looked at him hard for a moment, then nodded to herself. She looked troubled; well, that’s how James felt, too. He picked at his blanket absently and wondered when Q would get there.


	5. TWATCHOPS

Q couldn’t drop 005’s mission, but he could ask Cynthia for sit-reps. Her reports were short and exasperated, more like complaints than anything else. Bond was awake and loud about it. Bond had asked for Q at least three times in the past hour. Bond was taking his cover way too seriously, even talking about how his dad was going to be so angry with him for breaking his own leg. Bond wanted Q to bring him ice cream, and none of the subpar “healthy shit” that Medical had on hand.

Q smiled to himself at some of the complaints, and frowned at others. No matter how good it made him feel to hear that Bond had asked for him, it was still worrying that he would ask so many times. And the mentioning of his father… no, it just wasn’t right. Unless the drugs were pushing him deeper into his newest persona. Drugs did strange things to Bond. He’d been given so many over the years that he’d seemed to build a strange, lopsided tolerance; psychological ones did very little if anything, and physiological ones were required in copious amounts to even begin to work, which messed with his brain chemicals. Q had to wonder if that was the reason Bond had been asking for him.

When 005 was done almost being killed, and Q had a bit of breathing room, he nipped over to Medical.

Bond was reading, laboriously. Q could tell it was laborious because he was scowling hard and gripping the book tightly. It appeared to be Peter S. Beagle’s “The Last Unicorn”.

Bond looked up suddenly, saw Q through the window, and perked up, as much as he could. Q repressed a smile and entered the room, making a beeline to the bedside. “How are you feeling?” he asked lamely—and then he noticed the creases around Bond’s mouth and eyes, the slight flush, the tight jaw. “Aren’t you on painkillers?”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Bond replied shortly. “Doctor says I’ll be fine until the next dose, I’ll be fine.”

Q sat on the edge of the bed instead of in the chair. “When’s your next dose?”

“Another two hours.” His eyes flicked to the clock and Q read desperation there.

“No. Your next dose is going to be as soon as possible.” Q pressed the call button, ignoring Bond’s feeble protest, and took the book from him. “It’s obvious you’re in too much pain to concentrate. As soon as you’ve gotten your medicine, I’ll give it back.”

“And then you’ll have to leave.”

“And then I’ll _probably_ have to leave,” Q corrected. “There’s that chance I’ll—ah, Germaine. Have you got any pain pills small enough for him?”

“No, sir,” Nurse Germaine answered, looking puzzled and slightly suspicious. “We’ve been cutting them in quarters. He’s not due for any more for two hours.”

“He’s hurting,” Q replied bluntly. Bond snorted, but subsided when Q leveled a warning stare at him. Turning back to Germaine, Q continued, “His father may not have any pain receptors left, but children feel pain just as acutely as adults. I’ll take responsibility for any negative effects.”

Germaine eyed Q as if looking for a trick or catch; but then she nodded, and turned away. Q watched her go, then turned back to Bond, who was staring at Q with a strange look in his eyes.

“Why be in pain when you’re in the hospital?” Q asked rhetorically. “Do you want me to read to you?”

“No, I can do it myself,” Bond snapped, the strangeness vanishing. He sounded so like a waspish child that Q couldn’t help a smile. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You. You’re acting like a child, is all.”

“And that’s amusing how?”

“It’s not, you’re right.” But Q still couldn’t stop smiling; and then he realized it was relief. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said simply. “Except for the broken bone. I almost killed Agent Deane.”

Bond blinked. “You did?” he asked, and his voice went all funny for a child.

“Yes. Logically, I knew I was overreacting, but…” His eyes slid from Bond’s and his mouth twisted at the memory. Now that he was thinking clearly, his overreaction was… concerning. Just because Bond was in his care… “Anyway. Where’s Germaine with your medicine?” He glared at the door and sincerely considered getting up and hunting down the nurse, or perhaps even a doctor, but a glance at Bond’s stare and he didn’t.

“You care,” Bond said suddenly.

Q blinked at him, confused. “Care?”

“About me.”

“Oh.” Q’s fingers felt cold all of a sudden, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose a little. “Hm. Well, you’re in my care until you’re changed back, and they do say parental urges tend to, um, manifest when, um…” He trailed off, and tried again, as Bond’s stare drilled into him. “It’s because you’re young again. Young children need—“

“I’m ten,” Bond reminded him flatly.

“A young child,” Q agreed.

“That’s not why you care.”

“I—“

But before Q could make a mess of things again, Germaine arrived with medicine for Bond and a summons for Q from M.

~~~\0/~~~

“Q!”

The teen jumps to his feet and rushes to the door, grinning as Q comes into view, escorted by an officer. “Q, you can back!”

“I had to,” Q replies, amused faintly, but mostly worried. “Ready to come home?”

“Absolutely,” James answers.

The officer looks between them, raises her eyebrow, and unlocks the door.

~~~\0/~~~

James spent a few days drifting. He hated Medical, but he had to admit, some of the drugs they had him on were glorious. He dreamt amazing things—not nightmares, real dreams. The kind that made no sense, but left a pleasant buzz of confusion and adrenaline when he woke up. He loved them, and he looked forward to each dose of that particular drug.

During the day, he had to make do with standard painkillers that did nothing more than erase the itching and ache. If he moved too suddenly, a throb would warn him, but no sharp stabs. And he read. Dear god, the number of books he went through. Q started bringing him books every day in the early morning and taking them back at night. The weirdest, most obscure novels Q could find ended up in James’ hands, and he read them all faithfully.

Sometimes Q would talk to him. Would tell him all about Q’s day, about the stupid children throwing themselves at MI6’s firewalls, about the newest prototypes, about the carelessness of some of the agents. James finally got to see the heartbroken look in Q’s eyes when he described a beautiful new car, totaled by a thoughtless agent who had only shrugged and said it wasn’t their fault. James was one of those agents. But he had only seen the tight-lipped annoyance, not the very real mourning and rage.

“—as if building a new one takes less than a day and a hundred pounds!” Q was snarling. “It’s going to take me _days_ to get around to salvaging parts, and then it’ll be _months_ before it’s rebuilt! Even M is getting tired of it—but does he blame his precious agents? No! No, he blames Q-branch, and then he tells me the Major wants to come in as a consultant? He’ll set everything back by at least a week, because I’ll have to explain everything and get his approval and permission, because if this isn’t reinstating him I have no idea what it is. _Christ_ , Bond, sometimes I just—I just—“

Cynthia appeared before Q could say what he ‘just’, and shooed him out. James was left to stew, thumbing pages of his newest book, wondering what Q ‘just’. He swore he would never be like that again. He scowled, thinking how hard it was going to be—but it would be worth it. To take just a little bit of the weight off Q’s shoulders—that would be worth everything, if he had to go through fire to retrieve his equipment. He never wanted to see that heartbroken look ever again. Never. Q didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.

James had other visitors, as well, but he didn’t enjoy them as thoroughly, or think as deeply about them, as he did with Q. R came several times on behalf of the whole of Q-branch, though individual minions came by to wish him a full and speedy recovery. Agent Deane came to grovel and beg him not to tell his father. When James promised, Deane perked up, and told him all kinds of ridiculous stories of espionage and adventure, claiming they were tales of James Bond Senior. James laughed at them because they weren’t true, and also they were just so funny. And Deane did voices. And acted them out. He was an excellent storyteller, even if the stories were wrong.

James hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.

When Q came ‘round at the end of the day, he caught Deane in the middle of a chase scene. James’ attention locked on Q, and he turned a beaming grin on the head boffin.

“You’re just in time!” Agent Deane exclaimed, cutting himself off. “I’ve just gotten to the part where 007 shoots up an enemy car!”

“Should you be telling him those stories?” Q asked, frowning slightly. Deane’s smile faded a little, nervousness showing through.

“They’re about dad, aren’t they?” James demanded, sinking easily into his character of Little James. “I should know what he does, shouldn’t I?”

“And I don’t tell him about the sex,” Deane added.

Q’s frown deepened, then smoothed away as he sighed. “I suppose it’s alright. Are you done with those books I lent you?” he asked James.

“No,” James answered, “Deane’s been telling me stories since lunch.”

“Ah.” Q’s gaze cut to Deane again, who looked to be shrinking in on himself. “So that’s why his paperwork isn’t done. You know, I was going to let you go back out in the field tomorrow, but I suppose it’s for the best if you don’t go just yet. A few more days.”

Deane stopped cringing, and blinked. “Sir?”

Q sighed dramatically. “We’re short-staffed. We need all hands on deck. So a few days instead of a few weeks. Count your blessings.”

“Yes, sir!” Deane replied, saluting smartly. James recognized the fierce gleam in his eyes; he’d seen it in plenty of agents, and even himself when he looked in the mirror. “I’ll work all night!”

Q seemed pleasantly surprised. “Remember to sleep a few hours. You’ll do no one any good if you collapse from exhaustion,” he pointed out.

“I will, sir. That is, I’ll remember to sleep.” Deane turned to James and promised, “I’ll come back tomorrow; I still haven’t told you about Goldfinger.”

“Thank you, agent,” Q sighed, and Agent Deane scurried from the room, smiling.

James grinned again. “I take it back,” he told Q. “Deane’s a good man.”

Q nodded and sat on the edge of James’ bed. He looked… unhappy. James couldn’t read it any better than that.

“Q?”

“The rain’s ready,” Q said suddenly, staring at the wall. “I’ve tested it, on the rats in the tunnels. It fits my calculations. Of course, rats aren’t humans; but I’ve refined it as far as I can. It’s ready.”

“But it’s only been a week,” James exclaimed, surprised. “I’m not even beginning to heal up.”

“I know. But everyone’s wondering where 007 is, and the Major is coming tomorrow to yell at me. He’ll want to see you.”

James snorted contemptuously. “I’ve faced worse than old Boothroyd,” he declared. “And everyone can keep wondering. I don’t mind being like this a little longer.”

Q looked at him, and the unhappiness deepened. “Others mind,” he said.

James blinked.

Q turned his head away sharply, muttering curses. Then he stood, adjusted his cardigan, and said without looking, “Rain’s ready when you are, James.” And then he walked out of the room.

~~~\0/~~~

“Ready?”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Um… just in case this doesn’t work…”

“It will,” Q interrupts firmly, and gestures towards the capsule/coffin. There’s something desperate in his eyes. “It has to.”

James firms his jaw, nods again, and steps forward. He’s going in eighteen; he’s going to come out either forty-seven or dead. He’s ready either way.

One last glance at Q, and he steps into the capsule.

~~~\0/~~~

Q-branch was unusually quiet.

Q frowned slightly as he looked around. No one had died recently… there hadn’t been any major disasters in months… Major Boothroyd wasn’t even here yet…

“Am I missing something?” he asked R softly. “Why is everyone so quiet?”

“It’s Q—sorry, the Major,” R answered, her voice just as low. “We’re not ready. That reminds me—can you… please not let him near Little James?”

“Why not?” Q queried, surprised. “I wasn’t planning to anyway, but still.”

“Because—oh!” She plastered on a bright smile as someone entered the branch. Q turned, and found a small smile of his own.

Tanner was leading Boothroyd towards them, and Boothroyd seemed faintly disapproving of something. Q thought he knew why. Boothroyd had never liked computers, had never seen that the world was changing, will he, nil he. He must be annoyed that Q has transformed Q-branch into a technological wonderland.

“Where’s the machine?” Boothroyd demanded, before anyone could even say hello. This irritated R, surprised Tanner, and made Q feel very tired. A headache began behind his eyes.

“Dismantled,” he answered in clipped tones. “I still need it. Good afternoon, Major, Tanner.”

Tanner inclined his head in acknowledgement. Boothroyd looked a bit grumpy, but then, he was always grumpy. R quietly took her leave, with one last glare at Boothroyd that was frightening in its intensity. It also seemed to be a warning, but Boothroyd ignored it. Q’s and Tanner’s eyes met, with identical expression of dry exasperation usually reserved for the most disastrous of budget meetings, before Tanner turned to Boothroyd and said politely, “I need to get back, so I’ll be leaving you and Q to work things out now. Good to see you again, Major.”

“Same to you, Bill.” Boothroyd nodded once and smiled tightly; Tanner escaped with great dignity. Q’s headache worsened as Boothroyd turned on him with a warning glint in his eyes.

“Would you like to see the machine?” Q asked politely.

“Absolutely. And James too, afterwards.”

Q repressed the urge to shout ‘no’ until Boothroyd went away. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. He’s in Medical for a broken leg, and they have him on some medicines that make him sleepy. And cross.”

Boothroyd snorted. “I’ve dealt with worse,” he declared scornfully. “One little Bond can’t scare me. Now about this machine—what materials did you use?”

They talked about it on the way to the workshop, keeping it circumspect and vague. Let the minions speculate; they didn’t need to know, not yet.

Boothroyd didn’t spend long on the machine. He poked and prodded the pieces and parts for a bit, muttering under his breath, then moved on to the rain. Q shared all his research, all his experimentations, and all his findings. He handed over the tablet he’d regulated specifically to this project and waited silently while Boothroyd read.

“Show me,” Boothroyd said finally, handing the tablet back.

So Q led him to the corner of his workroom where he kept the rats. The rain did not hurt them, but he was very careful to monitor them before, during, and after the topical application. He had a vague idea that perhaps Bond’s regression had something to do with breathing in and inadvertently ingesting the rain, so he tried to keep that in mind while testing the rats.

“I diluted it considerably for testing,” he informed Boothroyd as he let loose a very old rat in a small pan of rain, making sure to dribble some of the liquid on the rat’s back so as to thoroughly coat the creature. After a moment, the rat began to regress in age right before their eyes. Q was used to it by now, so he watched Boothroyd as the old man’s eyes got rounder and rounder and his face became more and more shocked. When the rat was young and glossy again, it escaped the pan into another of purified water, which rinsed it enough that when it climbed out and back into its cage, it stopped regressing. It set about drying itself, and Q gently locked the cage door again.

“This rat is predicted to die in three days,” he told Boothroyd. “It will die of heart failure. The rain changes the body, yes, but the mind remains the same, as does the age. This rat is still six years old; just as 007 is still forty-seven.”

“And the other version?” Boothroyd asked, turning awed and slightly frightened eyes on Q.

But Q was used to that, too. So he simply disposed of the pan of old rain and set up a pan of the new. Choosing a young rat—barely five months old—he set the feisty creature in the pan, and barely managed to coat it before it was swimming for the edge. But as it went, it aged, from a few months to a few years, and when it crawled into the pan of water it was slower and did not fight when Q picked it up again.

“This one is five months old. I’m not sure how long it will live. None of the ones I’ve tested have died yet, so my theory is that this also changes nothing but the physical.”

Boothroyd was silent for a long moment. Then he said, in an odd tone, “I’d like to read about your findings again.”

Q brought forth the tablet once more, and while Boothroyd remained by the rats, Q went and tinkered with a new modified handgun.

After half an hour, Q’s mobile buzzed. He picked it up and answered automatically, “Is he throwing a fit?”

“No,” Cynthia’s weary voice answered.

“Then he can wait another half hour.”

“He’s crying.”

Q froze, then slowly set down his gun. “Crying?” he repeated carefully.

“Yes. He won’t tell us why, either. Maybe you can get him to talk.”

“If he won’t mind another visitor as well,” Q replied dubiously, glancing up at Boothroyd, who was staring at him hard from across the room.

“He probably won’t, as long as you’re here.”

Bowing to Cynthia’s excellent intuition, Q sighed, promised to be there soon, and rang off. When he turned to Boothroyd, the former Quartermaster was trying to turn off the tablet, and not doing a very good job of it.

“I have to put that away now, Major,” Q told Boothroyd, standing up. “Bond is acting up and Cynthia wants me to talk to him.”

“You?” Boothroyd asked sharply. “Why should she ask for you?”

“Because he’s supposedly in my care,” Q replied heavily, “And anyway, he’s always more talkative to me when he’s drugged up.”

Boothroyd looked suspicious, but there was nothing he could do or say. So he handed back the tablet, which Q turned off with a tap, and followed as Q left the room.

They did not talk to each other on the walk, though many people approached Q and asked him questions, or handed him paperwork, or informed him of problems or successes. He replied politely, but was always aware of the bristling presence beside him, disapproving of the way he spoke to his subordinates. It made him want to shout at his former boss that this was _his_ branch now, damn it, and he’ll run it however he pleases.

But he didn’t shout, and Boothroyd did not say anything uncomplimentary.

Cynthia awaited them at the door to the Medical branch. She nodded to Boothroyd and gestured for both Qs to follow her. Q found himself dreading this meeting. After that moment a few days ago where he almost told Bond… he hadn’t been back. Was that part of why Bond was crying? He wasn’t sure how to feel about that thought.

When Cynthia opened the door, they were just in time to see Bond pull his pillow over his face and scream into it. It was a frustrated scream, but it made Cynthia dart across the room and yank the pillow away, startling him so much that his scream cut off. Q found himself staring. Had he ever seen Bond’s eyes so red? Had there ever been that much pain and anger on his face? He was moving before anyone could speak, and took the pillow gently from Cynthia, tucking it back under Bond’s head.

“Boothroyd wanted to talk to you,” he told the not-a-child, who stared at him with eyes made even bluer by the red rims. “Are you capable of speech, or do you need to scream some more?”

Bond seemed dazed, perhaps because he’d been caught mid-yell. Then his face twisted into anger once more, and his lips pressed tight, a sign that Q would never get him to speak.

Q sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, picking up the book lying on the nightstand. The Last Unicorn again. “Did you sleep enough last night?”

Bond nodded stiffly.

“Did you eat today?”

Another nod.

“Are you angry at me in particular, or just the world in general?”

Bond blinked at him, surprised. “Not you,” he answered, voice crackling with past tears. “Never you.”

Cynthia stifled something that sounded like a snort, but Q wasn’t really paying attention. His face and neck felt warm, and he couldn’t meet Bond’s eyes, so he looked down at the book in his hands. “Oh,” he said softly.

Then, with great effort, he took a deep breath, looked up, and asked calmly, “What are you angry at, then?”

Bond’s jaw tightened and he looked dangerously mulish again. The blush faded and Q’s headache returned. “Please don’t turn this into an interrogation,” he sighed heavily. “You know I’m terrible at threatening people.”

“That’s a lie,” Bond muttered.

“Let me amend that; I’m terrible at threatening _you_. Out with it. What’s got your knickers in a twist this time?”

Bond shifted uncomfortably. He crossed his arms over his chest. He looked away, pouting. He sank further under his blanket. He muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like ‘fuck off’.

Q’s mouth twisted a little. “Boothroyd is going to talk to you whether you like it or not,” he informed Bond sharply, “So stop being petulant and act like the adult you are.”

Bond’s head jerked around to stare at Boothroyd, like he’d only just noticed him. Then his surprise turned to something wary, as he replied to Q, “But I’m not actually an adult. Wasn’t this established earlier?”

“No, not to my knowledge,” Q answered, frowning. “Your appearance—“

“There’s no point arguing with him,” Boothroyd interrupted. He came to Q’s side and fixed Bond with a steely glare. Bond glared right back, with just a touch of hatred. “I’m here to ask about The Incident, and if you refuse to answer, I’ll be forced to interrogate Jones here.”

“Q,” Q reminded him irritably. “I haven’t been ‘Jones’ in years. And what—“

“Fine,” Bond cut in. His voice was far too icy and sharp for a child. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, it seemed. Cynthia left to give them privacy (Q suspected it was because she didn’t want to be bored to death by details). Q stayed because he wanted to provide backup. Also he wanted to be there when Boothroyd left, so he could do some interrogating of his own.

~

James was tired, and angry, and felt like crying some more. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to curl up under his blanket and sob his heart out. He wanted this to _stop_.

He didn’t know what “this” was, but he hated it. He hated something undefinable, intangible, unknown. It made him even angrier, that he didn’t know why he was angry. And it made him so unbelievably sad.

But Boothroyd didn’t care. Boothroyd wanted to know everything. So James told him, caustically, with much snark and sass. Q was quiet, barely spoke, but his presence was a barrier, and it was relieving. James wanted to hide his face in Q’s shoulder. But that was childish and impractical. So he hid behind his sass and witty comebacks, and did not cry.

When Boothroyd was satisfied, he left. Q stayed. James eyed him nervously.

“What did you mean, you’re never angry at me?” Q asked, and he looked… concerned. Worried, even.

James looked down at his hands, still fisted in his lap. “You never give me reason to be angry,” he told his hands. “You’ve only ever been… kind. I can’t be angry at you.”

There was a thick, heavy silence. Then Q scooted closer and hugged James.

“I’m not kind,” he denied firmly, even as he settled with his arms tight around James. “Go ahead and… and cry, or scream, or whatever it is you’ve been trying not to do ever since we came in. And then I’ll talk to Cynthia and we’ll switch your drugs, because something is obviously wrong.”

“And that is kindness,” James mumbled, his face squished into Q’s shoulder.

“It is not,” Q retorted. “It’s completely selfish.”

How is that selfish? _Why_ is that selfish? James wanted to ask all sorts of questions, but he was tired and angry and sad, so all he did was fists his hands in Q’s cardigan and start crying again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you want to read next, I'm stuck.


	6. Fuckity fuck-fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one got a little messy, but I tried to be good, I swear. ;~;
> 
> (I'M SORRY, I FORGOT THE CATS)

Q found out a few days later that one of the doctors was giving Bond experimental drugs. 

Q dragged the doctor and Cynthia straight to M and demanded they face repercussions. Cynthia claimed she didn’t know that that was what the doctor was doing, and indeed, she looked honestly distressed and furious; the doctor shuffled his feet and made the weak argument that they needed to test on  _ some _ one.

“So you choose a  _ child _ , someone who doesn’t know what you’re doing or why, someone who could be permanently damaged by your stupidity, instead of getting consent from an adult who knows the risks,” Q snarled, hands balled into fists, every muscle tense and ready to strike out. But he couldn’t. So he didn’t. “You don’t even know what other side effects there are!”

“No one else was willing, and I thought you of all people would understand!” the doctor snapped back. “You, handing out weapons and tech that haven’t even been tested fully, knowing these agents go into situations with their lives dependent on—“

“Enough,” M rumbled, and the doctor shut up. “Q, leave us, please.”

Q stared at him, wanting to argue, wanting to fight, wanting to be present to witness what he hoped was a particularly vicious sacking. But he wasn’t sure what he’d do or say if he stood there any longer. So he nodded once, sharply, and left.

“Hey, Q.”

He halted in front of Eve’s desk and waited for her to continue. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Eve glanced at the closed door and leaned forward over her desk to murmur, “Is it really him?”

Q didn’t need clarification. He just nodded.

Eve’s eyes widened, but then suddenly she grinned hugely and asked ever so sweetly, “May I come see him later?”

“Once I get him on regular painkillers, yes.”

She nodded and settled back in her chair, still smiling. Q managed a tiny smile back, and exited the antechamber.

~

James woke up because someone’s warm, gentle hands were cupping his face, before one lifted and began stroking his hair.

“007.”

James opened his eyes and smiled. Or, he tried to; his face felt tight and stiff, as did the rest of him. Ah, that’s right; they’d switched his medicine again. “Q,” he mumbled.

“Good afternoon, 007,” Q replied, the hand passing over James’ hair pausing on his forehead. There was a small line between Q’s eyebrows, and his face was a mixture of concern and annoyance. He was shuttering himself heavily, hiding some negative emotion. “Your face is rather puffy,” he murmured, eyeing James critically. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” he admitted. It was always easier to admit things to Q when he was drugged up. Funny; he had never spilled under enemy interrogation, but with Q, it was just so easy. Even before he’d been turned young again.

“You’re not to take another pill,” Q ordered sternly, the hand on James’ forehead withdrawing, as did the one on his cheek. Q sat back and scowled, though his annoyance—anger—didn’t seem aimed at James. “I’ll bloody draw and quarter him for this,” Q muttered.

James stared up at him. “Huh?”

Q’s mouth twisted.

“It’d be better if you just told me,” James pointed out.

After a moment of doubtful silence, Q sighed and answered quietly, “Dr. Leroy has been experimenting on you. I think you’re having an allergic reaction to the latest pill. I don’t want you taking anything else until it’s completely out of your system. You shouldn’t even need such strong medicine anymore. It’s been almost a month, after all. You should be well into subacute pain now.”

“Oh.” James was silent too for a moment. He hadn’t even thought of that. He knew that lately the pills passing through his hands had all been different, but he hadn’t really had the clarity of thought to pay much attention. And he hadn’t bothered saying anything. It hadn’t really seemed to matter. “Any permanent effects?”

“We don’t know yet.” Q took his hand and squeezed lightly. “I’ll ask one of the other doctors about allergy medications. I do hope M and Tanner don’t block me this time,” he muttered, his tone vicious. James felt a little bubble of warm elation in his chest, and it took him a moment to place it.

Q cared about James’ health and wellbeing. Q wanted revenge on people who hurt James. Who  _ wouldn’t _ be elated to be a person Q cared about?

A small, seeping realization began; but James didn’t notice it right away.

“What are you grinning at?” Q asked—with genuine curiosity instead of wariness or suspicion. That just made James smile wider.

“You, that’s all,” he answered.

Q blushed and looked down. His thumb brushed gently over the back of James’ hand, a small, soothing movement. “Well, I’m glad you’re not sad anymore,” he harrumphed, to hide his embarrassment perhaps. “Boothroyd is impatient. I keep telling him it’s too early, but he insists that young bones always heal faster than expected. Has anyone checked your leg yet?”

“No. Cynthia said it has to wait until the two-month mark. I’m so  _ bored _ , though.”

“Well, you’ve cleaned out my bookcases, and R’s. Don’t they have exercises for you to do?”

“Yes, but I’m not allowed to do them unsupervised. And I don’t want to do them, anyway.”

“I do hope you’re not going to act petulant again,” Q commented, amused.

“Why didn’t you come and see me?” James asked, to change the subject. “That time after you ran Deane off, you didn’t come back for a while.”

Q went very still. His hand withdrew from James’, and he clasped his hands in his lap. “I… had work,” he answered unsatisfactorily. James frowned at him, and he continued, in an odd tone of voice, “I did, honest. It was very time-sensitive.”

“That’s a lie,” James stated flatly.

“It is not.” Q pushed his glasses further up his nose; his hand was shaking, and he wouldn’t meet James’ eyes. “If you must know, 009 had a mission that was going badly, and we had to send in 004 to recuse his sorry arse.”

James stared at him, hard. Then he remembered. Q had never lost an agent, though he’d come close. It must have been very close indeed, for 009 to need rescuing, the slippery bastard. Maybe that was why Q got shaky just thinking about it.

But something in James’ gut was telling him that Q was lying still. Lying by omission. There was no way James could interrogate him, though, not while he was so little. So instead he sighed and held out his arms, silently demanding a hug. Q stared at him, uncomprehending, but only for a moment. Then he scooted closer and wrapped his arms around James and whispered fiercely, “And if you get into the same position and die again, I’ll never speak to you again.”

James smiled and hugged back, nuzzling Q’s chest and getting cat hairs in his nose. Q stroked his hair gently. James noticed the realization creeping up on him, and nearly laughed. He loved Q. Loved him. And christ, did it feel good to love again.

~

Q liked hugging Bond very much, but he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to hug him when he was older again. It would probably be excellent. Not that they  _ would _ ever hug. A man can dream, though.

“Am I interrupting?” Cynthia’s voice asked dryly.

Q froze for only a moment before sitting back, letting go of Bond. Bond did not seem to want to let go of Q, but he grinned up at him with such a triumphant expression that Q had to smile. Needy little bastard.

“Is Dr. Leroy sacked?” Q asked, turning to look at Cynthia. He felt more relaxed, more able to speak of the doctor without a buzzing of rage beneath his skin. His hand automatically sought out Bond’s, and the not-a-child curled his fingers around Q’s tightly.

“Sacked, and M is going to have his license revoked. And that of the nurses who knew, but didn’t say anything.” Cynthia glanced at their entwined hands, raised an eyebrow, and continued with her eyes on Q’s face, “Also Ms. Moneypenny would like to come in.”

“Well, let her in,” Bond answered Cynthia, looking and sounding surprised. Then, to Q, “She knows, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Q answered, also startled. “How did you…?”

“She’s Moneypenny,” Bond replied simply. Q thought about this, then nodded.

Eve entered almost cautiously, and blinked when she saw Bond, jaw dropping a little. “Oh, wow,” she said. “Q, that’s amazing! Hello, Bond.”

Q couldn’t help letting his chest puff out a little. Bond shot him a quick, insincere glare, before turning to Eve. “Hello, Ms. Moneypenny. How’d you find out?”

“I asked nicely. Is the puffiness normal?”

“No,” Bond answered, “According to Q I might be having an allergic reaction.”

Cynthia, who had been standing by the closed door, stepped forward and waved Q out of the way. He let go of Bond’s hand and stood; Bond waited until the last moment to release his grip on Q. Q looked at him questioningly, but it wasn’t a good time. Cynthia was already bending over Bond, checking him over. Q stepped away politely, ending up next to Eve.

“So does he do that a lot?” she asked quietly, casually.

“Do what?” Q responded blankly.

“Hold on like that.”

“Oh. No.”

“Hmm.”

Cynthia straightened, tension in every line of her body. “I’m going to get you some allergy medication,” she announced in clipped tones. “If you start feeling like you can’t breathe, press the call button.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bond sighed. Q and Eve shared a look, and as Cynthia moved away, Q gestured graciously for Eve to precede him to the bedside. Eve did so, and sat in the chair, crossing her legs and lacing her hands together over her knee. Q sat on the edge of the bed, just out of Bond’s reach.

“So,” Eve said, with a hint of a smirk, “You ran afoul of one of Q’s experiments. Any effects? Other than the deaging?”

“None,” Bond answered, smoothing wrinkles out of his blanket. “We’ve had, what, two weeks to figure it out?”

“Three tomorrow,” Q corrected automatically. “And you appear to be in perfectly good health. Well, apart from the reaction.”

“Yes,” Bond agreed absently. He was staring at Q’s hand, resting on the edge of the bed just out of reach. Q rolled his eyes, but took hold of Bond’s hand and gave a gentle squeeze. Bond returned the gesture. Eve smirked wider, but said nothing, though her eyes were alight with curiosity and something suspiciously like delight.

Q found this disconcerting. He cleared his throat nervously, and both Eve and Bond looked at him. This was  _ not _ what he intended, and he blushed miserably.

Eve took pity on him and asked Bond, “How many visitors have you had?”

“A lot,” Bond answered confidently. “Mostly minions, of course. Some agents, at Deane’s request. Tanner came by and laughed at me, I can’t remember why.”

Eve looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did you enjoy any of them?”

“Some. Why?” Bond asked, suspiciously.

Eve simply smiled seraphically. “Because I have an idea.”

~~~\0/~~~

Pain fire can’t breathe

“Get him out of there!”

pain

“But sir, we only just—“

fire

“His vitals, sir, they’re—“

can’t breathe

~

Q tucks him in and he doesn’t bother fighting. “Did it work?” he slurs.

“No.” Q seems distressed. He lays his hand gently on James’ cheek and swipes his thumb along James’ cheekbone. “I don’t know what happened. Your vitals spiked, and then they started going down… And you were screaming. Please don’t ever scream like that again.”

James smiles a little. “So you do still care for me,” he comments.

Q’s mouth tightens into a thin line; but then he leans in and brushes a kiss against James’ forehead.

“I’ve always cared for you.”

~~~\0/~~~

“A party?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To show that you’re fine. It’s all over MI6 by now, that you were a guinea pig. Did you know that you’re known throughout the organization?” Eve grinned. “Anything related to 007 is big news. So to hear that he has a child, and that the child is in Medical, guarded by Cynthia so that no mere mortal may see him… A party to show you off, and assure everyone you’re safe. We’ll say it’s your birthday. We’ll even get Tanner in on it. What do you say, Q?”

“You know exactly what I say,” Q grumped. Then he began to smile, slowly, and James found himself becoming extremely uneasy. “I say we do it.”

“And there’s no point in me saying no?” James sighed.

“None whatsoever.”

~

Tanner pushed away from his desk and eyed Eve thoughtfully. “A party?” he repeated pensively. “What kind of party?”

“Oh, the usual. A bunch of adults standing around with drinks, mingling and making fun of their bosses, but this time with a child on crutches being made much of,” Eve explained with an airy, careless tone, though her smile was just a little evil.

“Oh, he’ll hate that,” Tanner chuckled, also beginning to smile. “Yes, I’ll help you plan it. Let’s send out a call for presents, too. Just to  _ really _ fuck with him.”

“You’re a horrible man, Tanner.”

“That’s why we’re friends.”

Eve laughed.

~

Q was too busy to answer questions about what kind of presents Bond would want, so he just sent out an email that boiled down to “new clothes, cars, Batman, and anything pertaining to his father’s work”. He left the minions to work their magic and got on with his own duties.

It took mere days to have plans in place, because MI6 working together is a force unstoppable, and it was decided that the party would be all day and everyone would take shifts coming with presents and well-wishes. That way work would go unimpeded, and everyone would get their chance to see Little James. M gave permission to use the largest conference center in MI6; Q walked into his branch one day to see his minions planning the fastest routes from Q-branch to the conference center and discussing whether or not to speed up the lifts. Some of the agents refused to go, citing with sneers that children were messy, loud, annoying creatures, and they didn’t want to have to deal with a fussy brat; Bond told Q caustically (when they were alone) that he’d never liked any of those ones anyway. Q suspected it was just that Bond didn’t like being referred to as messy, loud, and annoying.

Everyone was informed that Bond knew exactly what was going on because Q refused to lie to a child. Everyone was also informed that he was “nervous” about it, and therefore they should all be on their best behavior and not condescend or patronize him. The minions took this to heart; the administrative staff were confused; medical staff scoffed; the engineers and mad scientists began a contest over who could build the best child-sized Batmobile; and the agents acted innocent and hurt, but Q knew better than to believe it.

The night before the party, Q dropped in on Bond and found him mastering his crutches with great determination.

“It’s like I really am ten!” Bond complained exasperatedly as Cynthia helped him hold steady. “How many times have I used crutches? And now I can’t do it! Why didn’t we start earlier?”

“Because no one had time,” Cynthia explained, with a bit of a snap to her tone. “We have agents coming in at death’s door constantly and we’re chronically understaffed. We’ve only got the three physical therapists, you know.”

“I believe in your abilities,” Q told them both calmly, and brought out the present he’d been holding behind his back. It was a small box, but Bond’s eyes latched onto it immediately, and he managed three steps forward before he wobbled again. Q almost smiled, and tucked the present in his pocket to pick Bond up and set him on the edge of bed. Then he handed over the box.

Bond tore off the paper and frowned at the little leather case. But then he opened it, and laughed.

“You’re trusting  _ me _ with an exploding pen?” he asked, grinning up at Q.

“I’m trusting you won’t use it to blow up anyone from MI6,” Q corrected, unable to stop a small smile of his own. “I don’t need to give you the usual warnings, do I?”

“Not at all.” James closed the case and set it down beside him. Then he accepted his crutches back from Cynthia and stood, holding on tightly. Even Q, who had never had occasion to use crutches, could see that they were too long. He turned inquisitively to Cynthia, who had folded her arms across her chest and was frowning down at Bond.

“We don’t have any that are short enough,” she sighed. “You’ll just have to make do.”

“Or I can run over to the nearest hospital and fetch a pair,” Q offered.

Cynthia shot him a doubtful look.

“Just because I’m not an agent doesn’t mean I don’t know how to charm someone out of something they’re not allowed to give,” Q told her, slightly exasperated.

“Can’t we just cut off the ends?” Bond grumbled.

“We could,” Q answered, thinking, “Or the engineers could make a pair to your specifications.”

“That might work better than stealing a pair,” Cynthia commented, “But it’d take a while, wouldn’t it?”

“I already have engineers and mechanics staying overnight to make presents, they can probably whip up some crutches,” Q replied with a shrug. “I trust in their abilities. And they might add concealed blades.”

Bond perked up at that, and both Q and Cynthia chuckled.

~

The day of the party dawned. The decorations had been chosen by Moneypenny and others who had young children (there had been some debate about whether or not to allow other children to attend, but M had put his foot down and denied the request); a mishmash of superheroes was the theme, with Batman the most prominent figure. Moneypenny had even organized for three enormous (very expensive) Batman-themed cakes, one for each shift of guests.

Q brought Little James, carrying him as usual. There were already twenty people there, starting in on the spiked punch; they greeted the duo with hearty cheers and genuine smiles, because  _ look how cute they are _ ! Q is  _ such _ a good caretaker, and Little James is  _ so _ cute and well-behaved!

(Tanner may have overdone it with the vodka.)

Little James was quite taken with the pile of presents on the table, but Q told him sternly that they were for after everyone arrived. Little James did not pout, but he had a resentful expression that was eerily similar to his father’s that lasted all of three minutes, before he was distracted by Tanner saying in his hearing that Q-branch was working on a new car, a McLaren by all accounts. Little James immediately turned to demand an explanation from Q—but Q had vanished into the crowd.

Those watching saw a curious array of emotions pass over Little James’ face. Something like alarm, something like disappointment, something like sadness. Then Little James firmed his chin, turned, marched over to Tanner as well as he could on crutches, and demanded further information.

It soon spread throughout the party that Little James was just as knowledgeable about and fascinated by cars as his father. Also that he was very happy to chatter about Batman to anyone who would listen—or rather, Batman villains, and how they compared to the villains he’d been told his father had fought.

“And who told you that?” Jim from Accounting asked Little James, surprised, after a particularly farfetched comparison between the Joker and Blofeld.

“Agent Deane,” Little James answered promptly, “And some of the Q-branchers.”

All the agents turned to Deane with reproachful expressions. He looked embarrassed for all of five minutes, before he grinned hugely and said, “Good thing Bond Sr. doesn’t even know my name, isn’t it?”

“He does, though,” Little James corrected, frowning. “He knows all your names. He said so when he called me.”

There was a moment of absolute stillness, from all thirty of the assembled adults. Little James looked around, and scowled, so like his father that it was almost scary. “Q made it so he could call me and not get caught,” he explained, voice carrying easily over the sudden silence. “He said Agent Deane got most of it wrong but that was okay because he’d tell me the truth when he came home. And he knows everyone, he said, all the agents. He said it’s part of the job.”

Q stepped forward, appearing out of the crowd to crouch by Little James and ask, very calmly, “Would you like cake first or presents?”

Little James frowned at him, confused; and then his face cleared, and he looked relaxed and happy once more. “Cake,” he said with great certainty.

There was a hearty cheer, more of relief than excitement, and the cake was wheeled in. There was laughter at Little James’ expression, too, when he saw the cake; his eyes got very big and he gaped, in complete awe.

“But it’s so fancy,” he protested, “Are we really supposed to eat it?”

“What’s the point of a cake if you can’t eat the damn thing?” Q asked (he’d paid a third of the price, shared equally between himself, Tanner, and Moneypenny). Then he picked Little James up and helped him make the first cut.

The cake didn’t do much to fill anyone’s stomachs, but a snack bar had been put up, and with the cake came a real breakfast, a full English for everyone (paid for by MI6). Little James refused to eat, and instead rushed over to the presents, going over them carefully before choosing the largest one and untying the ribbon neatly before ripping off the paper. It was a huge box, but upside down; the engineers and mechanics who had chosen first shift smiled smugly as Little James pulled off the box and gasped.

“NO WAY!” he shouted, and immediately attempted to climb into the miniature Batmobile, with a care for his leg. Q jumped up and rushed over to help him, but paused, frowned, and instead began inspecting the vehicle as Little James got comfortable and began his own examination.

“Huh,” Q said, as Little James discovered the key. “This is actually—NO,” he snapped, yanking the key from Little James’ hand. “Wait until we push the tables back, so you don’t knock over anything.”

Little James’ pout became a grin, and maybe there was an adoring edge to it and maybe not. “Okay. But I  _ can _ drive it? Here?”

“How else are we going to see if it works?” Q reasoned calmly. “But not right now. Will someone help—“

But everyone was already standing and moving the tables and chairs, and as soon as that was done, Q handed the key back, Little James turned on the car, and M walked in.

“ _ Not _ in my conference room,” his firm voice rang out clearly above the hum of the electric motor. Little James immediately turned the car off. “Thank you. Q, Tanner, Moneypenny, a word, if you please.”

The three ringleaders looked at each other, all three baffled and slightly wary, but all went to M and followed him out of the room. As soon as Q was five yards away, Little James began squirming, trying to get up; by the time Deane had helped him out of his new car, the ringleaders and M had exited the room.

Little James started after them, but suddenly M’s head popped through the door again and he told Little James dryly, “I will give him back unharmed. Finishing opening your presents, second shift is coming.”

And with that, he shut the door.

The atmosphere was much more subdued after that, especially since, while each present made Little James smile and thank the giver enthusiastically (especially the many exquisitely made suits), he never seemed to be paying much attention. His eyes kept wandering to the door.

Eventually, though, he finished opening all of the presents; so Deane lifted him on to the table, and everyone began telling him the juiciest gossip they’d heard about James Bond Sr.—and Q, as well.

It was quickly discovered that anything negative about Q made Little James angry, though he was very polite and did no more than press his lips together tightly and frown. There wasn’t much negativity, though; Q was a favorite, because he was polite and neat and willing to bend rules and made gadgets, not just for the agents, but for everyone else, too. The only negative thing that anyone could agree on was that Q was… cold.

He had no real friends. He had no family, that anyone else knew of. (This was accompanied by expectant looks, but Little James said nothing to confirm or deny.) He did not form attachments to people. The only things he loved were his cats and his machines. And possibly James Bond Sr.

Little James looked stunned when Miranda from Medical said this, though almost everyone else nodded at the statement. “He loves dad?” he asked, seemingly amazed.

“Well, no one knows for sure,” Miranda amended quickly. “It’s just a guess. He’s never as irritated with Bond about broken or lost equipment, and he visits him in hospital. Now, mind, your father does seem a little more open around Q, but it’s such an infinitesimal amount. Never mind that Q put his job and life on the line for him during the Spectre debacle.”

“That’s why Bond likes him, though, because he helped Bond,” someone cut in. “And I heard that he only talks to Q when he’s drugged up. He trusts him. From Bond, that’s as important as love.”

Nods all around again. Little James seemed thoughtful and wondering, and then he said firmly, “I think they like each other.”

Miranda laughed. “Oh, no! We’ve made him into a matchmaker!” she cried in mock horror. Little James grinned widely.

When the second shift came ‘round, first shift queued up to hug Little James or shake his hand. Miranda and some of the other ladies kissed his cheek, making him pull a face but accept their love nonetheless. Second shift bore presents; one of which was shiny, black, and rolled.

“Another one!” Little James whooped. “Is that one electric too?”

“This one runs on biofuel,” the head engineer replied proudly. “ _ And _ it shoots bouncy balls.”

“You get the biggest pieces of cake,” Little James informed the engineers and mechanics.

Second shift was much larger than first. Without Tanner to keep order, the party soon got wild—meaning everyone got pleasantly buzzed and started playing stupid party games, with Little James still presiding from his spot on the high table. Lunch was served and eaten, as was the second, even fancier cake, and James opened his presents. There were more toys, more fancy clothing, a few pairs of shoes, and even a small gold watch (that was from seven minions who’d pooled their money). More Batman and superhero themed items that Little James exclaimed excitedly over. But again, he seemed to be glancing to the door often.

“Where’s Q?” someone asked, when Little James was halfway through unwrapping a box set of Harry Potter books.

Little James’ delight suddenly faded. “M took him and Moneypenny and Tanner away,” he answered, yanking off the rest of the paper viciously. It was visible, now, how tired he was from an early morning and several hours of excitement. Those with children understood; in fact, Wendy actually went and hugged him gently, and asked kindly, “Do you need a rest?”

Little James shook his head, but it was clear he wasn’t doing very well. So someone ran and fetched a camp bed (adult-sized, and where the hell had they found that?), and Little James was set up under the table, where he wrapped up in his new Batman fleece blanket and promptly fell asleep.

Everyone settled and spoke quietly, a social gathering rather than a party. They admired the gifts, talked about Little James, Q, and Bond Sr., and other interesting goings-on in MI6.

It was only an hour, however, before the door opened, and in slipped Tanner, Moneypenny, and Q.

“Q’s here!” Jacob from R&D called, and Little James sat up so fast he bumped his head on the underside of the table.

Everyone laughed, except Q, who rolled his eyes and went to fetch Little James from under the table. Little James clung to him tightly, as if afraid he might disappear if Little James let go. Q set him down on the table and gently unhooked his little fingers from Q’s cardigan. “What have you got now?” he asked, eyeing the unwrapped presents. “A watch, Harry Potter, another Batmobile… you’re going to have too much stuff to fit in my flat. We’ll have to set you up with your own.”

“ _ No _ ,” Little James said, fierce but quiet; Q only blinked.

The party continued, only when third shift came, Q made Little James take another nap while he demanded to know why third shift (which was even bigger than second) had brought  _ two _ mini Batmobiles. Moneypenny stood guard over Little James while Tanner collected torn wrapping paper and other trash to be thrown away.

After two hours, during which everyone got settled and started drinking punch (Tanner still poured a little too much vodka, but no one held it against him), Little James woke up again and said very clearly, “I want more cake.”

“You can’t have any until after dinner,” Moneypenny told him in a lecturing tone, crouching down and giving him a quick wink. “Besides, you’ve had two today, anyone would think that’d be enough.”

“You can never have too much cake,” Bond answered with great dignity. Then, in a smallish voice, “But I do gotta go to the toilet.”

Moneypenny sighed and helped him out from under the table, handing him his crutches as soon as he was able to stand. “Do you need someone to go with you?” she asked.

Little James immediately looked for Q, who was still arguing with the head engineers of the two newest mini-mobiles. Moneypenny smirked. “Someone other than Q, perhaps?” she suggested delicately.

Little James glared up at her. “I can do it myself,” he replied, and headed straight for the door to the restrooms.

He had just exited the conference room when Q’s head snapped up and he demanded, “Where’d he go?”

“To the loo,” Moneypenny answered.

“He’s not allowed to go alone, Cynthia said.”

“He seems to think he can manage it,” Moneypenny replied with a shrug, watching Q sharply. “He’s not a toddler, Q.”

Q flushed, but he couldn’t give her a piece of his mind, not here, not now; so he just said stiffly, “Still, he should be—“

He was interrupted by Little James wandering back out of the restroom, looking highly embarrassed. Q made a beeline for him, ignoring Moneypenny’s hastily-cut-off protest, and spoke to him. Little James looked even more embarrassed, but he allowed Q to shoo him back into the restroom. Q glanced up, caught Moneypenny’s eye from across the conference room, and decided not to follow, instead folding his arms over his chest and standing guard.

Moneypenny sighed and shook her head, then went to a knot of agents to assuage their worries about their gifts to Little James.

Tanner then discovered that many of the gifts from agents doubled as weapons. He did not confiscate them. Instead he went and quietly told Q, who sighed deeply but did not say he would take care of them, either.

“We’ll just hold them and wait,” he said heavily, and Tanner contented himself with that.

~~~\0/~~~

“Why  _ did _ you attack that guy in the pub?”

James wakes from his half-drowse and finds that his head is leaning on Q’s shoulder. Q is lying in bed with him— _ Q is in the bed with him _ . On top of the covers, but still.

But James still hurts, so he just sighs heavily. “I told you. He insulted you.”

“Yes, but…” Q sighs too and presses an absent-minded kiss to the top of James’ head. James closes his eyes in bliss, but Q’s next words jolt him again. “Why did you go to that pub? You never told me. I thought you said it was beneath you.”

“I… I was angry,” James murmurs. “You… you didn’t seem to care. You didn’t seem to care what I did. Ever since the rain made me eighteen, you’ve been… colder. So I thought you didn’t care about me anymore. That’s why I wanted to borrow the car, to see if you’d give a shit. And… you didn’t.”

“Because you can take care of yourself,” Q explains, surprised and perhaps a little distressed. “I didn’t want to get in your way.”

“In my—!” James sits up and twists to stare incredulously at Q, who also sits up quickly. “What exactly would be “getting in my way”?!”

“You didn’t—don’t need me anymore. You’re James Bond. You’ve never needed me, and I didn’t want you to feel like—like I was trying to hold you back or—or suffocate you or—“

James gets up on his knees and kisses Q smack on the mouth. 


	7. Shitmuffins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more for this chapter but I decided I was at a good place to stop. And I was getting tired of looking at it. I'm sorry.

Little James was passed out under the table when the party finally ended. Near the end, others who hadn’t been by yet dropped in to say hello and get a look at Little James, even though he was asleep, curled up under his blanket with a plush Wonder Woman toy (an anonymous minion had decided there weren’t enough strong female role models in Little James’ life, since it had been unanimously agreed upon that his mother wasn’t a very good one). Q, Eve, and Tanner helped the custodial staff clean up, and some of the nicer agents (including some double-0s) helped pack presents away in cardboard boxes, for ease of transport.

Little James had refused to take off his new watch though, or one of his four pairs of oxford shoes.

By the time everything was cleaned up and put away, there were about twelve boxes, not to mention the four mini-mobiles. It was eventually decided, in hushed tones, that the Batmobiles would be put in one of the underground garages, to await Little James’ inspection tomorrow. The boxes of toys and clothes and weapons (Little James had shown himself as terrifyingly good with throwing-knives, which endeared him greatly to the agents) would go in the back of an MI6 vehicle, for transport to Q’s home.

“Can you bring him home yet?” Eve asked Q.

“Yes,” Q answered after a moment, with a slightly stunned expression. “Yes, I can. Cynthia won’t like it, but… well, it was more a matter of convenience to have him here all the time. I can take him home and bring him back. We’ll just have to drive.” Q sighed heavily. “I loathe driving.”

“But you’ve got your own spot,” 005 pointed out, surprised and disgruntled. “You don’t have to spend hours trying to park.”

“Yes, but I still deal with the roads.”

Little James woke up at that point, and called out a little tremulously, “Q? Q?!”

“I’m here,” Q answered, immediately dropping to his knees beside the table, “I’m here.”

“Oh, good.” Little James sounded tremendously relieved, and those who remained all shared fond looks. “I thought—I mean, is it over now?”

“Yes, it’s over.” Q’s voice had never been so gentle. “We’re going home now. You have far too many presents, I don’t know how Ariel and Paddington are going to cope.”

“Home? I don’t have to stay in Medical anymore? Ow!”

“You will if you don’t stop hitting your head,” Q replied, amused, and reached under the table to help Little James out. “Come on, careful. There. Everything’s all packed up and labeled, all that’s left is getting it into a car and getting home.”

“Finally!” Little James exclaimed, clinging to Q’s sleeve as the Quartermaster rescued Little James’ crutches. “Do I still have to do those exercises?”

“I’m afraid there’s no way out of those,” Q answered. “But I’m sure the cats would be happy to do them with you.”

The agents who had stayed to help pack argued over who could carry how much, until Tanner suggested in his dry way that he, Eve, and Q could certainly do it all themselves if they had to. Then the agents all picked up boxes and quietly shuffled out the door. Tanner winked, Eve and Little James grinned, and Q just looked smug.

People stopped in the halls to say good night to Little James, and Q by extension. Little James was amazing with names and faces, remembering everyone with no trouble at all. He was a fascinating little chap, their James. Agent Deane caught them in the hall to the garages, and gave Little James a hug and a lollipop the size of Little James’ face. The child laughed and accepted the candy, and Agent Deane grinned triumphantly.

Little James fell asleep in the car, leaning against Q in the backseat. The silence as they drove was comfortable.

~

And then Tanner in the driver’s seat broke it by asking, “So, Q, when are you going to just tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Q retorted sharply, glaring at the back of Tanner’s head. Bond slept on, nestled under Q’s arm.

“You know what,” Eve sighed, turning her head lazily and holding back her curls to see Q properly. “You can’t keep pretending this is all just parental instincts.”

Q had no way to answer that, so he said nothing.

“Look, it’s probably fine to everyone who doesn’t know he’s really 007, but it’s actually a little creepy to the rest of us,” Tanner continued, lifting one hand from the steering wheel to gesture vaguely between himself and Eve. “Not that he’s any less creepy, what with the—“

“Who’s creepy?” Bond suddenly demanded sleepily, making the three others jump.

“No one you know,” Q answered quickly. “Just—someone from Q-branch. It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Who’s creepy?” Bond repeated stubbornly, sounding more awake, leaning back and tipping his head back to narrow his eyes up at Q. “I’ll take out their knee if you want. 004 gave me throwing knives.”

“You don’t need to take out anyone’s knees. I can handle it. Really, I can,” Q insisted, exasperated now, as Bond simply looked even more skeptical. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“That’s what they all say,” Bond grunted, letting his head fall forward so his forehead rested against Q’s chest. “And then they get kidnapped, or murdered.”

“I’m not going to be kidnapped or murdered,” Q sighed, automatically running his fingers through Bond’s hair, checking the tiny lump from the concussion so long ago. Bond sighed too, but said nothing else.

No one spoke for the rest of the way, but now it was tense and awkward. Q tried to stop touching Bond’s hair, but one miffed grumble and he returned to the task of combing it with his fingers. He could feel Eve and Tanner judging him.

Q had always liked children, had always been good with them; and he knew his behavior so far had been absolutely appropriate for a caretaker who truly cared. It was Bond who was being creepy. Bond who kept wanting to hug or touch Q, who seemed unable to do anything without Q nearby, who was acting like he was truly dependent on Q. Bond had been the one to say Q smelled nice, not the other way ‘round.

It took several trips to bring the boxes in. It seemed like half the hall opened their doors to peek their noses out and see what the fuss was, and never mind that they were doing their best to be quiet. Bond watched the watchers, and refused to stay in the flat, instead planting his bum beside the door, out in the hall, and kept the cats occupied with pets and pats while Q, Eve, and Tanner ferried boxes in.

Finally, Eve kissed Q on the cheek and hugged Bond, Tanner shook their hands solemnly, and the two of them left. Q sighed and shooed Bond and the cats back into the flat.

“Bed,” Q told Bond firmly, once the door was closed and locked.

“No,” Bond retorted, glaring up at Q.

“Don’t be difficult,” Q sighed wearily. “We’ve both had a long day, and I still have work to do. Go to bed, Bond.”

“Will you come with me?”

“No, I will not—“ Q stopped, and stared down at Bond. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Bond actually blushed, but put on his best mulish expression and repeated himself, clarifying, “You’re tired too, after all.”

“But I have work. If you must stay up, I’m sure all your suits should be hung. Christ, will they even all fit in the closet?” Q rubbed his face with both his hands, and gave a huff of annoyance. “I can’t think straight right now.”

Small hands tugged on Q’s cardigan. “Come to bed with me,” Bond demanded, but his tone was gentle and coaxing, which was unnerving from a ten-year-old (eleven now, if they were going by the made-up birthday). “You can wake up early tomorrow.”

Q sighed, lungs emptying in a long, deep whoosh. Then he lowered his hands, which fell squarely on Bond’s shoulders. Q blinked, surprised by the expression on Bond’s face; but then weariness washed over him, and he muttered, “Fine. I’ll tuck you in. But I am _not_ going to sleep.”

“I don’t need to be tucked in. I’m a big kid now.”

“Yes, you are such a big kid. Move it.”

Ariel and Paddington padded along behind them as Bond and Q headed for the guestroom. The cats watched, fascinated, as the two humans bickered comfortably and got Bond into Batman pajamas, somehow. Then Q helped Bond into bed and tucked him in.

Bond held up his arms.

“No,” Q answered the unspoken demand.

Bond pouted.

“ _No_ ,” Q repeated firmly.

“But you’re tired too.”

“And I’ll be sleeping in my own bed. Good night, Bond.”

“James.”

Q hesitated, then nodded slowly. “James,” he agreed. The name was too intimate—but for tonight, if it would put Bond to sleep, he’d use it. “Good night, James.”

Bond smiled and put his arms down. It was such a sweet smile. What had happened, in those years of growing up, to take such a smile and turn it into nothing more than a cold smirk?

Q brushed his fingertips against Bond’s forehead and left the room.

~

James rolled the sound of Q saying his name around in his head for a full hour, and then he fell asleep.

His dreams were… bad. They were memories of childhood, mostly, mixed with memories of gunfire, explosions, searing heat and bitter cold. Hiding in the tunnels under the manor, while the very foundations shook from the force of the blasts all around, the thunder of children’s primal fears replaced by the fallout of adult terrors. Falling into a pond on the moors, the icy rivers closing over his head while blood leaks from the bullet wounds in his flesh, sinking deep deep deep, dragged down by concrete chained to his foot. Q’s face, Q’s body, in a morgue, with the same wounds as his parents.

James woke up gasping, and crying. It was so real. Q, dead—it had felt so real.

“Q?” he called, voice quavering; then, with more urgency, as he sat up, “Q?!”

“I’m here.” And he was, magically. He sat on the edge of James’ bed and gathered the not-a-child into his arms, murmuring soothing phrases, rubbing James’ back as James hiccupped against his shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m here. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Don’t worry, I’m here. It’s alright.”

James clung to Q, as if, if he let go, Q would vanish into thin air. If he’d been his usual age, he might had attempted to convince Q that a bedding was in order; but he was ten years old and scared, and all he could think to do was hold on and try not to drown in memories.

~~~\0/~~~

It’s been thirty-seven seconds and the kiss hasn’t broken.

James is trying to coax Q into going further, but the Quartermaster is having none of it. He’s rolled them over so he’s on top, and while James finds the sensation of being out of control novel and exciting, Q seems to find his position disconcerting. But he won’t stop the kiss, his tongue slipping in and out of James’ mouth, exploring carefully. James wants to roll them over, but he likes just lying there with his leg pressing between Q’s own, feeling Q harden, exploring with his hands, christ, Q’s skin is so warm and smooth and soft.

The moment James’ left hand sneaks down into Q’s trousers, Q breaks the kiss and pants, “No, James, no. Not right now.”

“But later,” James presses, though he reluctantly takes his hand away. “Later, can we…?”

“Not while you’re like this.” Q’s face is so miserable, so uncertain, so guilty, that James wants to cry. “Later. When… when the rain finally works. Then… if… if you still want to…”

“Of course I’ll want to!” James snaps, his voice thick and his eyes stinging. “Damn it, Q, I—I—“

But he can’t say it. He can’t. Not yet.

~~~\0/~~~

Q woke up on his side cuddling Bond, with Paddington wreathed around their heads and Ariel firmly tucked between their stomachs. Both cats were purring, smugly, Q thought. But he couldn’t help feeling an obscure ache in his chest, and when he glanced down at the blond head just beneath his chin, he recognized it.

This Bond wasn’t the one he loved. This was the Bond he took care of. This was the Bond who called for him in the night, who pouted and clung and demanded hugs. This was—

Bond stirred, interrupting Q’s unhappy thoughts. “Q?” he slurred, his hands searching for something but only scraping Q’s bare skin. That’s right; Q had been getting ready for bed when Bond called for him, meaning Q was only in his pants. Bond’s soft little fingertips found the edge of the scar on Q’s back, and suddenly, the not-a-child was awake and staring at Q.

“What is that?” he asked, very softly.

“A scar,” Q replied helpfully.

Bond sat up, propping himself up on his elbow and exploring the mark with gentle touches. Q shifted uncomfortably; he didn’t like anyone touching the scar, and especially not Bond. Eventually, the clouded look on Bond’s face became too much, and Q rolled away and stood, running his hands through his hair. “It’s time to get dressed,” he noted, when he was calmer.

“How did you get it?”

“House burned down,” Q answered shortly. “If you’ll excuse me.” And he left the room without another word.

Breakfast was quiet, as was the trip to the car. In said car, Bond fiddled with the radio, but eventually gave it up when he couldn’t find a good station.

Everyone they met on the way to Q-branch asked Bond how he’d liked his birthday, and he had to smile and reply in the positive, usually quite enthusiastically; but when no one was looking, he kept casting strange looks at Q’s back and arm. Part worry, part anger, part sadness, part a weariness that only comes when one has been physically hurt so often that they simply take it as a matter of course. Of course Q was hurt. Of course it left a scar. Everyone had some scar or another, didn’t they?

Or, that’s how Q interpreted the looks.

It was a good thing everyone had thought to get Bond’s measurements, including the cast, before buying him those suits; Bond looked quite smart in them. It was almost funny. He seemed much happier, more at ease, and Q took a moment to wonder if the suit was Bond’s version of armor. Then he dismissed the notion as silly.

“Just like his father,” R teased gently when she hurried up to Q with an armful of papers. “He’d be proud to call you his son.”

Bond seemed taken aback, then beamed at her. Q wondered why he was so pleased, but it was a passing thought, because these papers were important. He sighed heavily. “Indeed. James, I’m going to have to work on these; why don’t you go down to the garages and test your cars?”

Bond lit up even more—then dampened. “You won’t come with me?”

“I have work. You’ll be fine. Magenta! Magenta, could you take James to the garage?”

“Of course, sir,” the intern sighed, setting her pile of folders back down on the desk she’d just picked them up from. Q frowned; was Magenta one of the people who didn’t like children? He couldn’t remember. Ah well, Bond could deal. Q had a branch to run.

~

“James!”

“C’mere you little shit!”

“How’d you like your birthday?”

James hugged everyone who came near him, marveling that he was so touchy-feely as a child, but cold and distant as an adult unless he was fucking someone. He just knew there was an overwhelming sense of joy and appreciation for these people, and when he looked to his new Batmobiles, he knew why.

Everyone laughed to see his eyes fixate on the little cars. “Alright then, let’s take ‘em to the test track,” the head engineer chuckled. The “test track” was an indoor space that was big enough to race motorcycles, but not nearly big enough for cars. That was alright; the Batmobiles were small. And James was quite happy to be pushed in one of them instead of hobbling on his crutches, or, worse yet, being carried. Again, he felt a pang of affection; they’d built the car just big enough and in the right shape to accommodate his cast, but it wouldn’t be uncomfortable once he was out of the cast, as well. Truly, these people were geniuses of the highest caliber.

He pointedly did not think of what would happen to them when he was himself again.

Maybe Tanner’s daughters would take them. There were five of them, but only the triplets were small enough to fit in these cars, and would be for a while. Or maybe they’d just stay down here, gathering dust, until they were sold or given to someone with real children. The thought made James unbelievably sad.

But they were at the track, and even as he was wheeled through the door, he heard Tanner say, “Well, girls, here they are. Be polite now, please.”

Three young voices whooped in excitement, and James’ head whipped around to see three girls rushing towards him, slanted eyes alight with jubilance, all three grinning like Cheshire cats.

“Canwepleasedriveyourcarspleasethey’rereallycool,” the triplet in red got out in a rush.

“Um, yes, of course,” James answered, slightly overwhelmed.

The triplets gave another excited cry and nearly fell over each other in their rush to pick a car. The triplet in blue suddenly turned to him and said, “Sorry about your leg.”

“Thanks,” James replied.

She flashed a smile and climbed in to her chosen vehicle.

~

The children had a ball. Little James had just as much skill as his father, and the triplets were reckless and instinctual. The track rang with laughter, whooping, and shouts. The adults stood back and watched, a smile on every face, even Tanner’s. Then again, Tanner always smiled when his children were involved.

And then it all went to hell.

~

James bit his lip fiercely and refused to bawl. Not in front of all these people that he respected and trusted. But he couldn’t totally suppress the whimpers and tears as he was oh so carefully eased out of the wreckage of his car.

“I called Q, he’ll meet us on the way to medical,” one of the engineers got out in a rush, as James was finally wiggled loose like tooth. “He’s ready to skin someone, I think.”

The engineers who had built James’ car looked alarmed, some downright terrified; but James got out from between hiccups, “He, he won’t. Won’t… let him.”

No one dared to contradict him.

One of the triplets was crying, Mya; her sisters were huddled around her, trying not to stare. James was pointedly not looking at his leg; he didn’t want to know what it looked like, he just knew it hurt so much he wanted to curse as well as cry.

Someone hefted him into their arms clumsily and he yelped, but bit his lip again almost immediately, tasting blood. No, he would not sob, and he would not swear, and he would not—he would not—

Every stride jostled his leg, and eventually he faded into a fog of pain. He was aware of being carried through the corridors, and Q hurrying towards him, and being carefully exchanged, and then a wave of familiar scent and warmth enveloped him and he almost burst into heaving sobs. Instead he let out a tiny mewl and clung to Q.

He thought of nothing except that he was glad Q existed.

~

Q carried Bond the rest of the way to Medical, the cold anger on his face enough to send everyone scurrying out of his way. Bad enough that the auto had crashed; now Bond’s leg was injured all over again, and he was crying, and all of Q’s instincts were raging to _hurt someone_ for causing harm to this not-a-child. It was akin, but not identical, to the instincts that roused when adult Bond was hurt. But there, the door to Medical; and Cynthia waiting, looking worried.

“What happened?” she asked briskly.

“His Batmobile’s steering broke,” Q answered, following her as she set off down the hall towards the x-ray rooms. “He crashed.”

Cynthia winced. “Well, let’s see the damage,” she sighed, as they entered an empty room. To Bond, she warned, “And you had better not move while I examine it.”

“I won’t,” Bond sniffled. When Q set him gently on the examination table, he clung to Q’s jumper; so Q kept his arm around Bond’s shoulders. Cynthia didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

The x-ray didn’t take long, and Bond clung to Q the whole time. When Cynthia left the room to fetch something, Bond looked up at Q and said, very calmly, “I want drugs.”

“We’ll get you something,” Q promised absently, glaring at the cast. “And then you’re lying down for a while.”

“Are the kids okay?”

“Mya, Soe, and Tun? They’re fine,” Q lied. He didn’t actually know if they were okay, but if it made Bond feel better, he’d say anything.

Bond nodded and braced his head on Q’s shoulder.


End file.
